


You Can Never Go Back

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: Kyle is confused, M/M, about everything, postgrad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2009-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 89,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5230211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I watch the bus race past the evergreen sign with its white curlicue letters reading 'Welcome to South Park'.</p><p>I'm back, whether I like it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Be So Blind

There are times in every person's life when you feel hopeless. Dejected. You see every obstacle barring your way, and instead of standing tall like you always had, you fall helpless. You think 'I really can't do this. I give up'. Times like these are harsh. You recall when you'd normally just suck it up, shake it off, and keep forging forward but somehow you can't force yourself to act.

Most people are lucky. They get struck by despair once, twice, maybe three times in their life.

I thought I was lucky. I thought I would make it.

Now I'm a fifth year college student with graduation still a distant dream. You know what my life is made of? Fail. Fail, fail, fail. Every ounce of luck I had vanished when I left that damned crazy town I grew up in.

I stare out the window of the Greyhound bus wondering what the hell I'm doing. Everyone told me I had potential. Everyone thought I'd be a star.

No one thought I'd lose my full ride to one of the most prestigious universities in the Northeast Corridor because I partied too hard and just couldn't finish my degree.

A college flunkout at twenty three. How pathetic can you get?

I didn't even call my mom and dad to tell them I was coming home. They're going to get the surprise of their lives when I show up at the door. Sure, they'll be happy at first, welcoming me with big hugs and smiles. Then they'll find out that I'm a complete failure.

I prop my elbow on the slim edge of the window frame, staring at the scenery but not really taking it in. It started to snow back on the interstate, right before we crossed the state border. It's almost like all of Colorado is welcoming me back.

If only it were that easy.

When I left South Park, I was an academic rock star. It felt great. Sure, I wasn't as athletic or charming as some of my friends, but I was proud of myself. I was worthy of standing next to them. In fact, I might have been a little overconfident. I wince in remembrance. The fact of the matter is that because I was so smart, I started to think I was even better than them. Stan's athletic skill wouldn't help him out in real life, and Kenny's looks would fade over time. Everyone knows the nerds go on to rule the world.

Sure enough, I got into this great private university. I couldn't wait to get out of my tiny little redneck town and see the world.

The funny thing is, the world seems huge when you're starting out. My freshman year, I was so lonely. I missed my friends in a way that crippled me. Eventually, the only way to get over the homesickness was to start having fun.

Once you start, it's hard to ever really stop. Partying became an addiction. I know what you're thinking; I went to college and became some cracked out wide eyed junkie, a tragic tale of woe for the folks back home. It was nothing like that. I can do the fastest funnel you've ever seen, and do a keg stand for longer than anyone else back at school. I even smoked the occasional joint. That's as far as my recreational habits went. The problem was that I was traipsing the frat parties, clubs, and bars every night. I'd sleep through my morning classes, and sometimes even my afternoon ones. I'd forgo studying to play Halo with my buddies. Thus, my scholarship went out the window. I appealed to the university a thousand times over, but after your sixth time losing your financial aid they tend to get a bit tetchy. Ironically, the world seems small now. I failed out, and I have nowhere left to go but home. Go figure.

I'm some kind of terrified. I absently watch a snowflake drift past the bus's window, somehow separate from the rest of the blizzard. It sticks to the glass, turning to water in seconds, alone. I watch the tiny wet drop stream down the window, joining all the other snowflakes that decided to stick and melt.

It must suck being a snowflake. You fall out of the sky, finally getting your moment of freedom, only to melt on bug juice stained car windshields. Or perhaps you fall right next to a bright red fire hydrant where a tail-wagging Labrador will empty his bladder.

I consider this for a moment, with nothing better to occupy my thoughts.

The sky outside is a gunmetal gray color that always accompanies snowstorms and the clouds are looming so low that I swear they're skimming the top of the Greyhound. When it's snowing like this I always feel like I'm stuck in one of those underwater documentaries, where bits of seaweed and plankton and fish poop and tiny little bubbles are sort of drifting around the scuba divers.

You know what? I bet this could work out. Maybe my mom will think that I'm going through some sort of belated teenage rebellion and understand. I know my mother's never exactly had a solid comprehension of words like understanding, or compassion for that matter, but there's a first time for everything.

My foot twitches under my seat, cramped from sitting for so many hours in the same position. The guy sitting next to me cast me a weird, disdainful look. I wonder if I smell. It's been two days since I last had a shower. I've been in transit all this time. My iPod died long ago. I sold my laptop for the bus ticket home, and I finished all the books I had left. It's kind of hard to focus on some fictional character's life anyway when my own is sort of spiraling into the gutter.

I bet you wonder if I saw this coming. Of course I did. But I'm twenty three. I think it's genetically impossible for anyone under the age of twenty five not to think they're invincible.

God, I'm so fucking bored.

Trying to occupy myself, I imagine my friends' reactions to my homecoming.

The problem is, I'm not entirely sure that I have any friends left. I don't know what's become of Cartman or Kenny, or any of the other guys. Are they in school? Do they have jobs? Do they ever even think of me? Sure, I came home for every summer break. I could have made the effort to see them. I didn't.

And then there's Stan. My super best friend. I suppose it's only right that I confess my guilty secret.

Get your dirty minds out of the gutter. It's definitely not what you think.

Stan came up to visit me towards the middle of my freshman year. I took him to all the parties I could. I guess he wasn't all that fond of my friends. I guess I was a little ashamed of him. You can take the boy out of the small town, but I guess you can't take the small town out of the boy. Although I guess that works both ways, for us. I'm a small town boy too, after all. Anyway, I was really nervous about introducing him to all my friends. Rightfully so.

He was…embarrassing. I know that's a horrible thing to say. No, it's not because he couldn't keep up with our pompous philosophical bullshit talk; I mean let's face it, when you're drunk, no one fucking cares what you say. Stan was embarrassing in a way that still makes me feel squeamish now, three years later. You see, he could out drink me. The girls were falling all over him. I always knew that in South Park, Stan outshone me. I kind of wondered if maybe the reason I chose a school so far away was because I wanted to be my own person rather than Stan Marsh's best friend. Like I said before, I sort of developed this whole ego problem. My new friends either loved Stan because he was so great or hated him because of it. I was torn. I felt like he was intruding on my life.

The night he left, we got into a fight. It was minor, really. I yelled at him because some girl had been fawning all over him at the bus depot. I didn't even know her name. I called him a jackass. Fast forward five minutes later; he told me I was an arrogant asshole and marched right onto his bus without looking back.

We were super best friends. It would have been an easy thing to apologize for. Distance does weird things to your head. Sometimes it makes you forget, and sometimes it makes you feel that much guiltier. He didn't call me. I think he was waiting for an apology. I didn't call him. I was scared to.

Our little fight evolved into a game of who would call who first. Eventually, I came home for the summer without having said a word to him for nearly a year. I could have walked down to his house, knocked on the door, and made nice. I didn't. Instead I spent most of my time in Denver, taking Ike to the movies, or generally avoiding anywhere I thought Stan would be.

Time passes quicker than you think. Suddenly three years had gone by, and somehow neither Stan nor I had ever gotten back in touch. Sometimes I thought about calling, thinking maybe he just still hasn't forgiven me. But there's a tiny part of me that also wonders if maybe it's not about forgiveness. Maybe I'd call and say 'it's me', and Stan wouldn't know who 'me' was.

I'm pretty sure I sound incredibly gay now, so I'm going to stop reminiscing. I watch the bus race past the evergreen sign with its white curlicue letters reading 'Welcome to South Park'.

I'm back, whether I like it or not.


	2. I Faced My Life Alone

Mom freaked. I mean, I guess I knew she would, but knowledge and experience are entirely different entities. It took three days for her to stop yelling, and even after that she couldn't stop looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.

"You were so close, Kyle," she'd tell me, like I didn't know.

Even at twenty three, your parents can be just as scary as they were when you were eight. Sure, I could find a way to make some quick cash and moved out, but that would just hurt my mom more. I'm not a bad kid. I want my parents to be proud of me.

My dad and little brother weren't any help either. Dad would scurry into his study the second I tried to approach him, similarly to a skittish cat. Ike was sympathetic enough, but seriously, he had only just hit puberty and discovered girls. High school was doing a number on him. I was lucky I got as much sympathy as I did. When I was in high school I probably wouldn't have noticed if the world ended, as long as I still had my friends and the occasional pretty girl hanging around.

Eventually I couldn't help bolting from the house any chance I got. I knew I needed to go job hunting, but ideally I would've preferred to put it off. Still, less than a week after I'd returned to South Park, I end up borrowing my mom's new cotton candy blue Kia so I could make the ride to Denver. I was going to have to buy my own car soon, once I got the money.

I frown, adjusting the seat and the mirrors so that I can see. My mom's so darned short that it takes a while for the seat to move back enough to make room for my legs.

Job hunting has never been one of my favorite things to do. It's all about appearances. Maybe it's because I've grown up in South Park, but I'm just a little less confident in mine than the average guy. I've tamed my thick red curls over the years into gentler waves, having frequented hair salons at a regular basis up in New England. It sounds kind of gay, but I prefer the word metrosexual. Ironic, hunh? Anyway, it could be worse. I could be one of those guys who gets weekly mani-pedis.

Meeting my own eyes in the rearview mirror I snort, imagining it. I'm dressed in pin striped slacks and a black button down, and the nicest, most toe pinching shoes I could save from the back of my closet. But it doesn't matter how good I look. Once the interviewers take a look at my resume, I doubt a single one will hire me. That's not the kind of attitude you want to have going into a job, but I really can't force myself to care. Right now I'm more concerned with getting out of my house and away from my mother's stern gaze.

I visit several sites in Denver that I'd found in online job listings. No one wants me. I can hear it in their voices when they ask about my academic achievements and what I hope to gain in the future. I see it in their eyes when they question what I can do for their company. They ask me why I dropped out of school. I try to find the most delicate way to say I was kicked out. It doesn't work.

The best thing I can do is smile pretty and hope that maybe one of the female interviewers is drawn in by my charm.

After about the fifth place, I give up. Sighing, I sit on a bench outside some little coffee shop that's trying too hard to be trendy. I bought a cup of something I can't really pronounce, but now staring at the steaming brew, I find that I can't force myself to drink it.

Fuck Denver. It's not like I even want to work here. The commute is hell. Hours in a car aren't the ideal way to waste half your life. But South Park doesn't exactly have the kind of job opportunities I'm looking for. There I'll probably rot flipping burgers, even if I did somehow manage to take some night classes at the community college and finish out my degree. Setting the coffee aside, I prop my elbows on my knees, holding my head in my palms. Why does my life suck so much? What did I do wrong?

I wish I could call a friend and complain. Talking about my problems always made me feel better.

Then I remember. I don't have any friends.

I could call one of my university friends, but around this time, they'd be in class or work. Either way, they wouldn't really understand, not the way I need them to.

I sound like a fucking faggot.

Almost belligerently, I throw the coffee in the nearest trash can. You know what? I bet one day I'll look back at this period of my life and view it as my artistic phase. Long long in the future I'll see this as one of the beautiful follies of youth, because things just look better in the future. Like when people sing songs or write stories romanticizing the Holocaust. Everyone knows it sucked ass, that it was a literal blemish on human history. But now people can immortalize it with pretty words, using art to somehow make it look like a softer, kinder event.

Oh dude. Did I just compare my life to the fucking Holocaust?

Furiously I shake my head. Things will get better. They have to.

* * *

Time passes. It always does. Before I know it, I've been in South Park for an entire month. My mother still won't look me in the eye, although she suggested I begin taking night classes when the new semester starts in the fall. It's a start, but it means I'll have to wait over half a year to do so. It's only February.

I try out job hunting in Denver about once a week. The rest of the time I spend in a futile attempt to beef up my resume by twisting words around and making myself sound more intelligent than I am.

After one particular job hunt, mom's Kia makes it to the outskirts of town right before it sputters and dies.

I curse. I knew I should have gotten gas back near Denver. It costs so much that I'd thought to avoid it. If I'd just made it home mom would have filled it up, and then I wouldn't have had to worry. I'd been so preoccupied with the tires slipping on the icy roads that it had kind of slipped my mind anyway.

Seriously, who buys a Kia when you have to deal with Colorado winters? Mom doesn't even have snow tires.

I can see a tiny brown stone shopping complex down the way. It's not a gas station, but if I recall correctly, they have a mechanic's shop, a deli, and a DIY laundry. I think the shop is called Big Joe's. Maybe Big Joe will spare a gallon or two of gas, or if he doesn't have any, perhaps he can just tow me. Not feeling very optimistic, I set off, crossing my arms against the chill. I'm in my business attire, which wasn't made for tramping through the snow.

The mechanic's looks like every other mechanic's I've ever been to. There's a tiny, cluttered office bordered by a larger, still cluttered garage. Oil stains the floor of the garage in interesting patterns. A black escalade is in the center of the garage, windows half tinted. The only person there is working on the rest, treating the passenger side window with some sort of solution.

"Hello?" I try, hoping against all hope that this guy has gas.

"Just a second," the person grunts, apparently not even surprised by my entry. I wonder if he has one of those bell things, but then think that I would have heard it. My footsteps must have been loud enough.

Finally, the mechanic emerges from the side of the Escalade. He's dressed in dirty brown coveralls rolled down to his waist and a black wife beater that still can't quite hide the stains of his profession. Oil is slick and brown against one of his sinewy shoulders, tracing a long line from what I can see of his collarbone. His face is marred here and there by a darker substance; probably the solution he was staining the windows with.

He smiles wide upon seeing me.

If anyone tells you that college won't change you, they're lying. They obviously go to some shitty ass community college or commute to a local university, and even then they're lying. Four years of your life, or in my case, five, pass by. It's impossible not to be changed by it.

Hell, Kenny McCormick didn't even go to college, and he sure looks nothing like the skinny, perverted guy I used to know. I almost have trouble recognizing him. Somewhere along the line he's become lean and muscular, with an angular face and a slightly crooked nose that looks like it has been broken at least once since I've last seen him. His wild blonde hair had been cut short, although bits and pieces of it still stray near his eyes, as though yearning for their former length.

He sees me and I can tell for a moment that he's taking me in. I wonder what he sees.

"You douchebag," he exclaims, eyes bright with sudden anger. I half-grin sarcastically as he continues his string of insults.

"You conniving, fuckfaced, assmaster, douche," he belts out again. Guess now I know how my old friends feel about me.

Then to my sudden surprise, he throws his arms around my neck so that I can smell his unique scent of stale cigarette smoke, engine grease, and some cheap bathwater cologne and hugs me tight, "Missed you, dude. Why'd you take so long to come home?"

Startled, I shrug off his hug, "Um, I…"

Kenny smiles. He was always so casual with his smiles, so carefree. The older I get, the less I find myself smiling or laughing, but Kenny hasn't seemed to encounter that problem. I don't think I've ever really seen him look miserable.

Finally I manage, "I thought you were mad at me."

"Sure," he replies easily, his hand tracing over the line of a wrench that hangs from his belt, "I'm royally pissed. You disappear for nearly four years without a word to any of your friends. Of course I'm pissed. Doesn't mean I didn't miss you. What, can't take a few insults?"

I break into a grin and exclaim, "Kenny!"

Now we share a full-fledged hug. Okay, it might be a little gay, but think of it this way. This is the first real human contact I've had with anyone other than my family and those ape-faced interviewers in a month. It's nice feeling like I might have a long lost friend.

"You work here," I observe, trying not to be Captain Obvious and miserably failing.

"Sure thing. Why, did you think I was Big Joe?"

Kenny asks why I showed up, and I explain that my car ran out of gas. Gravely he informs me that I shouldn't let the car do that; it will ruin my engine. I tell him that just means I'll see more of him.

"I don't give freebies for friends," he laughs.

It warms me to think that he still calls me a friend. He grabs an orange two gallon jug of gas, which I guess mechanics keep around for all those just-in-cases. We walk amiably to my mom's Kia.

He asks why I'm home, and if I'm staying. I tell him the story, glad to finally tell someone who won't look at me like I ended my life prematurely. Kenny's a great listener. He's always sympathetic. By the time we reach the car I feel like maybe he'll be able to forgive me for ditching him and everyone else in South Park.

I'm still not brave enough to broach the question of how everyone else is, particularly Cartman and Stan.

Just as I think I might get the guts to do it, I puss out and ask if he has a girlfriend instead. He grins and says, "Nope. The ladies aren't big on the engine grease."

I laugh, because he doesn't really look torn up over this fact.

"But you were like a Greek God in high school," I protest.

Kenny blushes, "Well, I guess I still have my fair share of luck now and then."

It's as he's filling up my tank that I realize something else. Even though he's laughing and trading stories with me, Kenny's got that glint in his eye. The one that I recognize from my high school days. It's the glint that says he wants out, and he wants out now. I almost expect him to come screaming and clawing at me like a savage in an attempt to steal my car and race out of South Park as fast as my Kia will take him.

Instead he swerves toward me with an easy smile, "Kyle! You're all set."

"You're a lifesaver!" I gasp, pulling open the driver's side door and motioning for him to get in. We drive back to the shop, where I pay him for the gas.

"I hate to leave, dude," I tell him, "We were just catching up."

I almost expect him to say get the fuck out. Sure we were catching up, and sure he called me a friend. That doesn't mean they weren't just empty words. He could be holding his breath until I leave, ready to call everyone and tell them that the 'douchebag' is back in town.

Instead he glances at the Escalade and says, "You know, I'm pretty much done in here until tomorrow."

"Don't you have to finish that?"

"The sun's starting to go down. It's hard to see how much I'm tinting when it gets dark. Plus it's creepy as fuck here at night," he laughs, "I end up all alone where no one can hear me scream."

"Do you wanna- like, hang out?"

Oh yeah, Broflovski. Real smooth.

Kenny mimics my invitation in a childish voice. I pretend to throw a nearby tool at him.

Don't kid yourself. Even in your twenties, you're still just a kid at heart.

"I know somewhere we could go," he grins, a peculiar gleam in his cobalt eyes that I only vaguely remember from high school.

I feel my stomach flip. A paralyzing fear takes hold of me. What if he decides that I really am just a long lost grade 'A' asshole who isn't worth his time and wants to punish me by dropping me in the midst of the woods. There I'll wander until dawn and probably catch hypothermia.

Since the woods are within city limits, I'll become some sort of living human popsicle and a bunch of snot-nosed kids will turn me into a museum attraction to make some quick cash.

Kenny is staring at me expectantly. I shake my head; since when has my imagination been so twisted? I guess I hadn't realized how truly scared I was to encounter old friends.

I try to keep my voice level as I query, "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

 

I don't know why it surprises me that Kenny decided to take me to a kegger. I'm standing in the midst of trailer-park-land, which rests on the very outskirts of town. I always knew the Mexicans lived somewhere; I certainly couldn't imagine them in the identical clapboard houses that the rest of us all shared. I just hadn't guessed they had their own compound of sleek silver trailers haloed by kitschy colorful lanterns.

It looks like someone's quinceañera decorations exploded across the sky.

Parties as a matter of course have three different manifestations. The first type of party is the kid party. You know, the one with chips and dips, no alcohol, and a perpetual question of whether or not you'll have a good time. It always depends on the company and whether or not there's crappy board games involved.

The second type is the fancy party, which as long as you make it through with your sobriety not intact, is sure to be a blast. These kinds of parties are marked by bubbly champagne and girls in skimpy, supposedly classy dresses.

The last, and best type of party is simply this; a party. Sometimes there's a keg. Sometimes there's jungle juice. Sometimes there are jello shots. If you go in ready to party hard, you'll have the time of your life. If you go in whining about how you're underage, you're too moralistic, or you're the sulky designated driver, it'll probably suck. Even sober however, there's still a chance you can enjoy yourself.

Drunk people are like monkeys who don't throw poop. Well, most of the time. Fucking with them is hilarious.

On the other hand, if you don't know anyone other than your lanky mechanic friend, the best course of action is to grab a beer and suck it back hard and fast. Drinking is an art form, and one I like to think I perfected in college. Kenny watches me down a Bud Light in one quick chug.

"Dude," he mutters in awe, "I see classes weren't the only thing you were learning up there."

I flash him a quick grin before picking up another beer. He follows suit.

It turns out he doesn't actually know anybody at this party, but that a friend of a friend told him it would be happening. We take advantage of all the liquor we can just in case someone decides to kick us out, mixing beer, some kind of juice mixed with alcohol that tastes hella strong, and shots of tequila.

It doesn't take long for us to get blasted.

"You know," he burps loudly, the downs a swig of his concoction, "I moved out of my house less than a year after I got the job."

"Why?" I ask, mildly curious. We'd been talking about my options in finding work somewhere closer to South Park.

Kenny squints at me, like that's a silly question. I'm confused. It wasn't like he had to move. The mechanic shop is only a few miles from his house. Conspiratorially, he says, "Everyone thought my parents were beating me."

"Were they?"

"Fuck no," Kenny snorts, "I think people automatically assume that just because we're poor and alcoholism runs in the family that we don't fucking love each other. I tried to deny it, and told people that their fucking asshole opinions weren't welcome, but eventually I realized it would be better for my folks if I just moved out. Work's steady. I send them what money I can."

"Good for you, Ken," I say softly, thinking that even he'd found something to do with his life.

Shit, now I'm even jealous of a friend working some low level job. I really need to get a life, and get one fast.

It's about then that I try to grow some balls, "So whatever happened with everyone else. I sort of lost touch…"

Kenny gives me an amused glance, "Yeah, I'd heard. Hmm…Well, I bet you haven't heard about Cartman!"

"What about him?" I ask. Last I'd heard from Stan he had actually made it into a local university. Stan had been burning with jealousy about it.

"He was at school, at some party or another and got accused of raping a girl."

"What?"

"Yeah, it was way harsh, dude. Especially since we all knew he didn't do it."

"How do you know?" I ask, thinking that Cartman has always seemed kind of harmless to me (well, mostly), but that it didn't mean he couldn't have been hiding a dangerous side.

Kenny starts, "You mean you didn't know?"

He's practically yelling over the loud, frantic music emanating from a nearby boom box.

"Know what?"

"Cartman's a fag dude. He always has been. I would've thought you'd guessed."

My mouth falls open in shock. I mean, it all makes sense now. All the jokes, all the cruelty, all designed to throw suspicion off himself. I gasp, "I had no idea."

Kenny shakes his head, "I thought everyone knew."

"So what happened?"

"Well, even though it was obvious the girl was lying through her teeth, he landed a year in jail and tons of community service. He's been out for two years, and it's the weirdest thing…"

I look at him, curious. Kenny concludes, "Cartman's been an upstanding citizen ever since."

"No fucking way."

"Yep. He spends all his free time at the homeless shelter and the free clinic, volunteering," Kenny practically sneered at the word, "And he has a steady job as dispatch for the police department."

I glance at the now dark sky in amazement. Will wonders never cease? Who would have thought that Eric fucking Cartman could make something of himself.

Kenny obliviously plows on, telling me how Clyde, the star quarterback of South Park High has been working in his dad's shoe store and taking night classes to get his masters, of all things. I can't even get my bachelor's and stupid Clyde is getting his frickin' masters? Kenny then tells me that Token ended up moving to California, while he's actually working towards getting his MD so he can be a doctor.

Then I think he realizes that all this talk of motivated scholars is getting me down and hands me another beer. He switches gears and tells me about Craig, who ended up buying a bar in Denver. Craig had turned into a bit of a rebel in high school. All the girls liked him, and all the guys wanted to be him. Kenny tells me that he and Craig have actually gotten quite tight over the years.

I blink in surprise. Kenny glosses over it; he starts telling me that Bebe actually got recruited by a recording company and plans on being the next Britney. Apparently everyone's gone on to have their own thing.

He spends the better part of updating me on the South Park graduating class of '04.

I notice he skips over the person I most want to hear about. When he slows down to take a shot of tequila I patiently wait for him to swallow and ask, "Ken, whatever happened to Stan?"

He eyes me uncertainly, "You really want to know? I thought you guys were like, sworn enemies now."

I gulp. So that's what Stan thought?

"I…I always meant to call him. It just got harder and harder….then I thought he must hate me, and," I choke on my own voice. I never really thought my super best friend would hate me. I toyed with the idea of course, but I figured eventually we'd make up. The idea was always in the back of my head.

Kenny shrugs, "Stan's working in some big office that opened up at the other end of town. He's dating Wendy Testaburger. Remember her?"

"I thought she transferred in eighth grade," I say, remembering outspoken, intelligent Wendy, whom Stan had crushed on since the second grade.

"Moved back," Kenny smiles, "She's working as a night legal secretary, which sadly is not secret code for prostitute. Trust me, I asked."

So that's that. Stan's happy. He's got a life too. I wonder if him and Wendy are thinking about getting married, or having kids, or all that domestic stuff that seems to befall happy couples who have spent most of their life lusting after each other.

The idea makes me inexplicably sad.

Kenny excuses himself to go find a bathroom. He'll probably end up walking to the edge of the trailer park so he can just piss in the bushes, but whatever. I figure it'll take him some time. I try to make my way around the side of the trailer hosting the party, ducking by skimpily clad girls and a rather messy looking game of flip cup.

Leaning against the trailer I look up at the moon, which for once isn't obscured by a thick haze of clouds.

Everyone has their place now, except me. I sort of thought that maybe nothing would change while I was gone, that I'd get back and it would still be me, Kenny, Stan, and Cartman against the world. Maybe we'd have some zany adventures.

We're too old for it now.

Before I can get too deep into my newfound depression, I hear a mewling sound around the back of the trailer. Curious, I wander to the other side. There's a whole setup here too; a table laden with empty handles of cheap vodka, the kind meant to give you quick oblivion, empty Bud Light cans littering the grass, and an overturned white plastic bowl that once held some variation of the liquor-juice concoction. I step over the cans, not wanting to frighten off whatever small animal I think I hear.

I scan the ground for something resembling a cat, or maybe a small dog, but find nothing. My foot falls on an aluminum can.

Suddenly I hear, "Oh shit!"

I turn to the left and see two bodies, frozen in front of me. It's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. A pretty brunette girl is pinned against the back of the trailer, wearing only her bra and apparently very close to the throes of ecstasy. She cries, "Why did you fucking stop?"

The guy shoved deep inside of her withdraws, his eyes trained on mine. Then he doesn't move at all.

Apparently Stan's become the man-whore everyone always thought Kenny would be. Funny how life works out that way.

"Hey dude," I finally say, even though he's still frozen, the expectant brunette glancing back and forth between him and me. She finally gets a clue and unwinds her legs from his waist, stepping gingerly down to the ground. I try to ignore her butt wiggling as she searches for her underwear. She finds the lavender lace bit of cloth in the dirt behind the table o' refreshments. They must have really been going at it for her thong to have flown so far. She shrugs her lithesome legs through the holes of her panties, securing them and then her super short denim skirt in quick succession. Wordlessly she gathers up the rest of her clothes, which consist of a thin white tee and a leather jacket before scurrying off to join the rest of the party. Stan's still standing there, silent and gaping. His cock, still half hard, hangs half-heartedly from his pants. It's shrinking quickly in the chill night air.

I look away, embarrassed.

"What the fuck, Kyle?" Stan bursts, springing into action. He shoves his dick back into his pants, hurriedly zipping the fly and buckling his belt.

I deign not to answer, figuring he needs a moment. His face, neck, and the front of his shirt are drenched with sweat. He was obviously very into his illicit activities.

It makes me blush just thinking about what I just saw. I thank God for the shade of night.

Finally he stops flurrying around and looks at me, "Why the hell are you here, you fucking jackass?"

"Kenny," I say, as though that's an explanation.

"Fuck Kenny," Stan explodes, "Why the fuck are you in South Park? Shouldn't you be in school, ignoring the rest of us?"

Shortly I reply, "Failed out."

That stops him. He looks at me. His eyes are the color of the blue-black sky above, and colder still. I think he's going to say something, but instead he shakes his head and storms away.

That went well.


	3. You Say We Got Nothing In Common

There are moments in our life that we hold dear, moments that can never be duplicated or revisited. The kind of moments when your heart isn't even a consideration, because you're just feeling too much, too soon, and way, way too hard. It's moments like these that make your soul soar. They're amazing. They're the kind of moments that make you feel like living isn't a chore, but a blessing. I've been lucky in life; I've had a lot of these moments.

Meeting Stan Marsh was actually one of those moments for me, as faggy as it sounds.

We were barely even toddlers. Somehow Sharon Marsh got sucked into one of my mom's activist schemes; I think it was about saving the fertile farmland of our quiet mountain town from urban sprawl. My mom likes boring things like that. Sharon and my mom hit it off, leaving little baby Stan and me to play on our own. I'd never seen a kid like him. Actually I hadn't really seen many kids at all then; my mom was still in her uber-protector phase, with me being her first born and all.

He was rosy cheeked and startlingly blue eyed, with a shock of black hair only just starting to emerge from his bulbous little head. Stan had a funny looking head. It was shaped sort of like a basketball. Then again mine was sort of like a wheel of cheese, at least in the old pictures I've seen. We couldn't talk yet then, still being made up of mostly baby fat and gums. He cooed something unintelligible at me, and I did the same.

My heart was never involved in the equation. I just knew that I liked this boy, and that he was going to be a part of my life forever. He was a kindred spirit. It was only later, when things got complicated, that my heart became attached. He became the most important thing in the world to me, until I abandoned him in South Park. Even then, he didn't hold it against me. He always supported my choices, from going to school in New England to what color boxers I decided to buy at the local department stores.

I think of the stormy eyed man at the trailer park and wonder for the hundredth time what had happened to my super best friend.

It takes me a while to find Kenny in the throes of the party. He's flirting with a blonde girl who's wearing too much eyeliner and doesn't seem very interested in whatever Kenny's saying. Poor guy. He always had the potential to be an incorrigible flirt, but he's such a perv that he never had the right way with the ladies. Only his looks saved him in high school.

I sigh and interrupt him, despite the fact that he looks murderously close to dumping his beer over my head for cock blocking.

"She wasn't going to go for you anyway," I explain.

The blonde frowns, "You think?"

"I know," I tell him wisely. We dodge a group that has decided to start an impromptu keg stand session. The poor mini-skirted girl they decide to lift into the air nearly nails Kenny in the head with a stiletto, but we're both more occupied by the fact you can totally see down her skirt. It's hard to wipe the wicked grins off both Kenny's face and mine after that.

Then I remember what I came to find him for. I pull him away from the keg, where the girl only manages to suck down icy cold beer for a grand total of two seconds before spitting it all over some Hispanic guy in baggy jeans.

"Sick, dude," he yelps and jumps back, hitting the side of the trailer. Kenny and I ignore him.

"What's up?"

"Erm-" I deftly grab his beer, taking a sip before starting the conversation, "I kind of just found Stan."

"Stan's here?" Kenny whistles, "That's rare. Wendy doesn't usually let him out at night."

"They're living together?" I ask.

"No," Kenny laughs, "She just tucks him in before she heads out to work. So wait, Stan's here? Why isn't he with you? I would've expected it to be one hell of a reunion."

"You can say that again. I kind of interrupted him."

"Interrupted him how?" Kenny asks, genuinely curious. For a pervert, he doesn't really grasp dirty things too quickly.

"Erm…coitus interruptus?" I say, thinking of a nice way to put it. Kenny's still staring at me blankly.

"He was fucking some girl up against the back of the trailer," I explain when I realize the blue eyed boy is no closer to grasping what I'm saying.

"Ohhhh," Kenny takes a long swig of his beer then, and something unrecognizable flashes in his eyes, "Was it Wendy?"

I thought about it. Maybe if Wendy had become a nubile brunette with the best cock-sucking lips I'd ever seen…I shake my head, "Dude, I don't think it was Wendy."

Kenny sighs, finishing off his beer and then throwing the can resolutely on the grass. I pity the fool that has to clean up the mess for this party.

"I had this talk with him a while back. Seems like he didn't listen. Wendy's going to crucify him if she finds out. Then again, she never does."

Never does. I mouth the words, pondering what Kenny's just told me, "So he does this often? Balls."

I'm thinking that if Stan really is harboring some secret hatred for me from four years back, it probably makes it worse that I discovered him giving it to some girl who certainly was not his girlfriend. But I don't even know for sure that he does hate me. I mean we didn't even have a conversation. He just walked away.

I guess that doesn't bode well for a potential rekindling of our friendship though. I don't even know if I want to seek him out and have him as a friend again though. It just feels like something I should do. At some point. I'd planned on finding all my old friends after I found a job. I just found Kenny a little sooner. Seeking out Stan was totally next on the list. Which I may no longer be able to do now that I know Stan's dirty little secret. I turn my attention back to Kenny.

"Often enough," Kenny shrugs, "He's not the most faithful guy in South Park, if that's what you're asking. He's careful though; Wendy's been dating him for three years, and he never once got caught, even this time when he caught the syph and I had to take him to the free clinic. He had to sneak Wendy her shots while she was sleeping so that she didn't know she was infected. That was one hell of a time."

"He gave Wendy syphilis?"

Kenny nods, more intent on finding another full beer can than telling me the story. I shake my head. So Stan Marsh was going around giving people venereal diseases. Somehow I can't quite imagine it.

Then I remember the image of him, cock in hand, behind the trailer. He hadn't even looked ashamed.

Kenny hands me another beer and I down it without a second thought.

* * *

 

The day after the party is the first in a long time that I don't go job hunting. My mom had finally been giving me some slack for flunking out, but this morning she's in a rage.

"Why aren't you leaving?" she snaps.

"I'm taking a break," I say through a mouthful of Cheerios, trying to ignore the way she's glaring at me.

"Why?" she demands. My mother's the type of person who thinks if you badger a person enough, they'll eventually cave. This morning I have different plans, so I put up with her questions while I finish my breakfast, deliberately not giving in.

"It's snowing outside, Ma," I offer, like it's ever not snowing in South Park, "I don't want to end up in an accident. Don't worry, I'll drive out to Denver tomorrow."

Mildly appeased, my mother says, "You could try looking in Boulder. its closer, and I bet there's some jobs there that you might be more suitable for."

I warn, "I'm not going today."

She brightens suddenly, "You could go submit your application for the community college."

"It's not due until April, Ma."

"Procrastinating never helped anyone, Kyle."

"I have plans, Ma."

"What kind of plans?" she asks suspiciously, "What's more important than finishing your degree and getting a job? You're being such a bad role model for you brother-"

"It's just for today, Ma."

"Don't get sassy with me, young man. I'm just looking out for your future."

"I know."

My mother huffs. There's no way to really win this argument. If I agree too much with her she'll say I'm patronizing her. If I don't answer, she'll say I'm ignoring her. If I disagree with her, we'll just end up arguing. It looks like we're going to already.

"I just don't understand where I went wrong, Kyle. Why did you have to get kicked out?"

I thought we were over this. I thought she was going to leave it be. The day I got back was pretty much guilt-fest of the year, so it's not like I didn't already know how she felt about my sudden expulsion.

"I'm so disappointed in you Bubbala," she tells me, eyes narrowed with grief.

That's it. Did I argue with her? No. Did I yell? No. All I wanted was one day to myself.

"You know what?" I mutter, thinking she knows the perfect way to hurt me, "So am I. Lay off."

"Kyle!" she screeches, furious that I'm walking away instead of bemoaning with her what a bad, stupid boy I am. For a moment I almost wish I had another mom, one who didn't care how much I fucked up.

No, that's not true.

You know, my mom is a bitch. She always has been. For some reason people seem to translate bitch as abusive. I don't know how many times people called child protective services on behalf of Ike and I when I was younger. Each time we had to carefully explain that my mom loves us. She always has. She's one of the most supportive parents around. I guess it's the same as what Kenny was telling me. Just because his family is poor, just because my dad's a pushover and my mom's a raging bitch, and just because Cartman's mom is a whore too, doesn't mean that our parents don't love us. I love my mom, and I know she just wants the best for me.

But right now I really just can't deal.

You might ask why I decided to risk the wrath of my mother.

I guess I've decided that looking for Stan sooner rather than later would be the wisest decision, given the events of last night.

I have two scenarios in my head. In scenario one, Stan's going to welcome me back like the prodigal friend and we're going to be insta-friends again. In scenario two, Stan's going to tell me to fuck myself.

I hate when I watch movies or shows involving fags, and the second one breaks up with the other, they sob like the world's going to end. Fuck that. If a guy's girlfriend dumps him, sure, he's going to cry alone in the privacy of his room. If he even liked the broad, that is. But in the presence of friends, he's going to drink hearty and possibly try to get laid. That's how I've modeled myself. Stan says fuck you (not that I'm saying I'm gay for him, because that would be wrong), I go find tequila shots. I realize I just made myself sound totally into my male best friend, but comparing a friendship to a relationship was about the closest I could get to how Stan and I used to be.

Which says a lot about how Stan and I used to be.

Both my scenarios also hinge on the fact that Stan reacts in a cookie-cutter like way. He either missed me or he didn't. The problem is, real people aren't like characters in movies. We drift apart and away, even from our best friends. Stan might not have even cared that we stopped talking. I've been thinking he hates me because I sort of hate myself for losing my best friend. He doesn't have to automatically feel the same way. In fact, it would be almost cliché to think he does.

I don't want him to think I'm trying to get him to be my best friend again, either. I just…I guess the truth is that especially now that I've been back in South Park for a while, I've missed having the familiarity of Stan. Having no friends sucks balls, and it's easier to find your old friends than look for new ones.

And if your old friends tell you to fuck off, like I said before; I know a great bar with cheap tequila.

I'm thinking all this while I stand on the terrace outside Stan's apartment building. Kenny told me how to find it the previous night. I make my way inside and onto an elevator. Stan lives on the seventh floor. I find the apartment and, taking a deep breath, jab my finger into the buzzer.

Nothing happens. I hear the sound of the ringer on the other side of the door, but no footsteps to accommodate me. Maybe he's not in.

I have to ring the buzzer at least eight times before I decide to give up. Just as I turn to leave, something sounding like a stampede rushes the door. Startled, I step back. The door creaks open.

A pretty girl emerges from behind the door. Her low cut shirt is backwards and inside out, her cheeks and lips are red, her hair tousled, and her skirt is riding up so high that I can pretty much see her lacy thong.

"Hello?" she says sweetly, not bothering to cover herself. I squint, thinking that Wendy has definitely matured and trying to find that empowered little girl I used to know. Even though I still sense a ball-breaker hiding behind those innocent eyes, I also sense that she's become a little more like the stupid spoiled whore she wanted to be when she was a little girl. But that might just be because right now she definitely has sex-hair.

Bet her parents are real proud.

I clear my throat, "Is Stan here?"

Her eyes widen, clear and blue, "Ohmigod, Kyle?"

Put off by the squeal, I sort of stammer a positive reply before she flings her arms around me.

"It's been so long," she says in a rush, "I can't believe you're here. Stan told me all about that little falling out you had, and ohmigod I bet you want to talk to Stan. Sorry."

She hollers Stan's name through the apartment, but doesn't release her hold on me. Wendy Testaburger certainly learned how to talk. She's still chattering my ear off with all the 'how are you's and how you been's' that most old acquaintances use while she leads me to a black sofa. It's near the sliding glass door that marks the balcony of the apartment. Stan's been doing well for himself, I see. I glance around, ashamed of my own status as a failure. Wendy's excited chatter hasn't really died down yet, but she falls completely quiet when Stan walks in.

He's half naked. Again.

Bare-chested and sweaty, Stan staggers into the living room like he owns the place, which I suppose he does.

He sees me. He's quiet.

"What are you doing here?" he asks after a moment.

"Kyle came to see you!" Wendy exclaims dumbly, and I start to wonder if moving from South Park had stolen a few IQ points away. Normally you'd think it would be the opposite.

I nod, just because it seems to be the appropriate thing to do. Wendy seems to experience a flash of brilliance and realize that this is kind of a personal moment and says, "You know what? I think I'll make some tea. Stan, why don't you sit next to Kyle so you two can…talk."

The dark haired boy does so, obediently. I don't think anyone other than me wonders if he shouldn't put a shirt on.

"Hi," I begin.

He grunts, "Hi."

"Erm- sorry for interrupting you…" I say, glancing furtively at Wendy, who's humming and putting a tea kettle on the stove, "Last night and today."

Stan shrugs, "It happens."

"I guess," I reply, thinking that it hadn't ever really happened to me before.

"So why are you here?" he asks, "Just to apologize?"

"I…I haven't seen you in a while."

"Well," Stan purses his lips, "That happens too."

"I should have called you," I hurry on, "You know, from school."

He's still watching me, saying nothing. I wonder if he's mad. I wonder if he cares at all.

"I...you were my friend, dude. I acted like a douchebag. So I guess I wanted to apologize for that too."

Stan stares at me, his eyes cold and unblinking. Quietly, so that Wendy can't hear, he says, "You want to know how I felt as the months dragged on, waiting and waiting for you to call? You want to know how I felt when you never did? You want to know how I felt when a year passed, then two, then three, and then four without ever hearing your voice?"

I gulp. I nod. It's all I can do. The fear that he didn't care about our forced distance has vanished. There's a sadness I don't recognize in his eyes, a sadness that I think I put there.

"It made me want to die."

If he expects me to come up with a quick reply, he's left sorely wanting. I can't even make my lips mumble a sound in response to that. Never in my life have I imagined Stan saying 'I want to die', yet here he tells me that my arrogance caused him that kind of pain?

I feel like he's taken a knife and twisted it in my gut, but the pain is almost pleasant because I feel like I deserve it.

His eyes brighten as though he doesn't even notice that he's sucked all my breath away, "But its okay. We were both stubborn fucks."

He actually has the nerve to laugh.

Now I'm really confused.


	4. Everything Looks Perfect From Far Away

"Seriously, Kyle," Stan is half-glaring at me across from a steaming cup of untouched hot chocolate, "You need to calm down. I think you're hyperventilating."

He might be right. His joke about almost dying without me is neither funny nor acceptable.

"I was kidding. Sure, I was upset when you ditched me, but high school friends are supposed to grow apart right?" Stan is looking at me with the most curious gleam in his eye. I know he's right, but somehow this isn't the reaction I expected at all. His cobalt eyes are filled with humor, and I can't help but think he's handling this way better than I am. Of course if Stan had caught me mid-penetration with some whore, I'm sure I wouldn't find something as simple as long separation embarrassing either.

Wendy's bustling around in the kitchen. Now that she's made tea and cocoa, she's decided it's necessary to make cookies, and I can't help but feel a little bit sorry for her. I never liked her much; she was too occupied with the latest trends and too scary when it came to her relationship with Stan back in the day, but she seems nice enough at this point.

I'm rambling on about how I'd still like to be friends with Stan, despite the fact we've 'grown apart'. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. He's looking at me like I'm some kind of freak, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Stop with the drama, Kyle. I never stopped being your friend or anything. Did you ever stop being mine?"

Drama? I'm almost insulted. I'm male. Males don't have drama, unless it's about cheating girlfriends, and then it's always the female's fault. Males laugh in the face of drama and walk down to the local bar and…geez, lately my thoughts have been occupied with drinking. I miss college.

Plus I keep trying to mentally reaffirm my masculinity. Hmm. I don't have any issues about it. I mean, I've never questioned the fact that I have balls. Erm. Fuck. I sound insecure. Okay, I'm going to pay more attention to Stan now.

"No," I reply carefully, eyeing him. He says we never stopped being friends. He said he doesn't care about the old fight we had. Forgive and forget and all that. Stan's never really been big with the grudges, either. I think his attention span is too short to actually hold one, not that it's an insult or anything. I always kind of liked that about him. But, for some reason, this time I thought it would be different.

I wonder if I'm disappointed that it's not.

I discover that Stan had called in sick today, so I was pretty lucky to catch him at home. Wendy of course, was always home during the day, having a night job and everything.

After chatting aimlessly for about an hour, I discover three things. One, Wendy makes fucking amazing cookies. They're steaming hot, smell divine, and literally melt in your mouth. If she cooks everything so well, I'm not surprised Stan decided to get back with her. Two, Stan really hasn't changed that much. He's still the laid-back, friendly guy I've known since I was small. The only thing that bothers me is that he isn't as…emotional as I remember. He's always been a sensitive guy, but every once in a while he says something that makes me think he's gotten a whole lot more apathetic in the past four years. Three, and this is one thing that really worried me; we still click. Amazingly, instantly, after all that drama that is, Stan and I still get along like we never spent a day apart.

Don't get me wrong, we're not automatically super best friends. When I tried to woo him into hanging out with Kenny and me later that night, he was mostly neutral about it. Still, we talked and laughed and joked like we still knew every single detail about each other.

It was fun.

I missed that.

I stand to leave, gathering up my coat and hat. It's fucking frigid outside. I'd pretty much be screwed if I'd forgotten them. Plus it's a long walk from Stan's apartment back to my house. I give Wendy a quick hug and Stan an affectionate pat on the back. He's looking at me kind of warily, "When did you get so tall?"

I can't help it. I laugh. Last time I saw Stan I was probably about the same height as he was. I've never been miniature; my mom may be short, but I drank a lot of milk in my day. Still, I expected to stop growing in college. Instead, I now stand half an inch taller than Stan, but probably two inches shorter than Kenny.

We're technically farm boys. Don't you know that we're raised to be tall, built, and incredibly sexy?

Okay, that sounded queer. I won't be saying that again.

As I walk out of the apartment, I'm smiling. I'm so glad to have finally sorted things out with Stan. I'm so glad that he doesn't hate me.

Fuck. He was so chill. I'm still wondering why that's bothering me, but it can't wipe the grin off my face.

* * *

 

I'm sitting in a bar, in Denver. Actually, I'm sitting at a very specific bar in Denver, but I'll get to that. My current predicament is that I've met up with Kenny after a long day toiling on the job market. Kenny's showing me a photo album his mom dug up of our childhood foursome. In the picture we're peering at now, Stan, Kenny, Cartman, and I are building a snowman, but having some trouble. The adult versions of Kenny and I are pointing and laughing at our expressions.

I stare at the picture and inwardly grimace. There's one thing I need to clarify about the pictures from when I was younger. I never realized it before, but my friends back at school might have mentioned once or twice or three times that I never changed my clothes. Nor did my friends. In any of the pictures.

We fucking changed, okay? Here's something you have to know about kids; they grow at an astounding rate. In the whole of my life, I've probably gone through at least twenty five different winter coats. That's one point something coats a year.

Yes, one point something. Give me a break, guys. I'm out of school. My mental calculator is temporarily off.

Anyway, do you know how much a freaking nice, weather proof parka costs?

Even for an upper middle class family like my own, the answer is too much to buy more than one or two a year for growing boys. Since most of my pictures of my friends were taken outside, it's only natural that we're all wearing our tried and true winter wear. Sure, at the time we could've asked for new ones for our birthdays or the holidays, but we wanted new toys! The point being, I do not appreciate people constantly thinking I or my friends never fucking changed our clothes, even if it was only when we were younger. We're hicks to be sure, but not redneck dirty ones.

I guess I get a bit sensitive about pictures from when I was a kid. Kenny seems to sense that I'm no longer interested in laughing at the album, because he shoves it to the side and orders me a whiskey. I'm not very big on whiskey, but Kenny swears there's nothing better than a rocks glass full of Johnny Walker Black Label, and I don't feel up to arguing. I've only been hanging out for him a week at this point.

Back to the subject of the bar. Kenny had told me Craig owned one, which I didn't really understand. How could a kid my age actually own…well, anything? I barely have enough money for gas.

When Kenny called me up and told me to meet him at this place, I hadn't known it was Craig's. Which made it ever so awkward to find the raven haired boy behind the bar staring at me.

"Shit, dude. Kyle Broflovski. You haven't changed one fucking bit," the bartender leaned across the tabletop, simultaneously hugging me and flipping me off. It was the finger that made me realize it was Craig. He had changed a lot since high school. In school, he'd channeled most of his energies into the school newspaper. He had a boner for journalism that none of my other friends really understood. At the same time, he thought it made him into a pussy. He dressed in ripped jeans and a brown leather jacket, and wore his hair in this longish style that all the girls swore made him look like sex on a stick. Like I would know. Now his hair is still shaggy, but a lot shorter. He's all dressed in a white starched shirt and black slacks, very professional like.

"Hey Craig," I flashed him a genuine smile. I always liked Craig. He had this fuck-all attitude that I kind of envied. When someone pissed him off, he made sure they never managed to do it twice. Everyone feared, respected, and wanted him.

"This is your bar?" I asked him, still surprised.

Proudly Craig spread his arms, "Yup. All mine."

"How'd you get the money for this place? I mean I heard you graduated from State," a sour expression pursed my lips for a moment, but I shrugged it off, "But you couldn't have made that much in such a short amount of time."

Craig smiled, "My grandma died."

"Sorry."

"Nah, I'm just yanking your balls. This place used to belong to my grandpa. Grams said it was time to pass it on."

"Sweet," I grinned. He served me up a Black and Tan. We started talking about the Broncos, until another customer came in and interrupted us. By the time Kenny came, it was pretty much packed. It is a Friday night, after all.

Kenny snaps me back to the present.

"How'd it go with Stan?"

"It went," I stare into my drink, "I think it went well."

"You see Wendy?"

"She's a fucking bombshell now, right?"

"Mmm," I agree, "Nice too."

"You're telling me you were checking out Wendy Testaburger for her personality?" Kenny gives me a distasteful look.

Panicked, I reply, "I wasn't checking her out."

"I know," Kenny laughs, "I'm glad it all went good. Cause I have a surprise for you."

I'm about to ask what, but I'm interrupted by a new voice. It belongs to someone I never wanted to see again after high school graduation.

"Jesus Christ," Cartman mutters, and I begin to seriously doubt what Kenny told me about his sudden reformation, "God save us all from fucking Jews."

Sputtering ridiculously I counter, "God doesn't listen to the prayers of fat assholes."

Kenny waves an arm between the two of us before Cartman can come up with one of his oh so original witty replies, "This argument has been going on for all time. Kyle, you are a fucking Jew. Get over it. I'm a fucking Christian, and you don't see me crying my eyes out every time someone calls me one."

I refrain from mentioning that no one ever came up with lewd, inappropriate words for Christians. The blonde continues, "And Eric, you are a fucking fatass. You need to accept that fact and move on."

"Aye!" Cartman objects, but I can tell that he's fallen victim to Kenny's charming logic. Bastard. I could have used a decent argument. Apparently when you reach maturity, it's considered rude to call others names. Cartman is my last bastion of obscenity, as it were.

To my shock and terror, he suddenly breaks out in a huge grin and engulfs me in a hug, "How you been, Kahl?"

I wiggle and squirm out of his embrace, "Erm-good. Let me go now?"

Kenny's laughing as I squeak. Just to piss me off, Cartman hugs me tighter. He may have gotten more proportional with age, but I'm fucking drowning in blubber here.

Finally he lets me go. I notice the brown haired boy is dressed in a blue uniform, and I remember what Kenny said about his job as a dispatcher for the cops. I guess people have to respect his authority now.

The lardass settles down on a bench, and it's sort of the same gig. Panting for breath, I ask him how he's doing. Annoyingly, he begins a long winded tale about how he's found his place in life. Bastard. Meanwhile I'm thinking that hug might have cracked one of my ribs.

"So you know I'm a fag now?" Cartman says suddenly, his dark eyes looking right at me.

I nearly choke on my drink. After swallowing I demand, "You what?"

Kenny did mention something like that before, but to be honest, I thought he'd been joking.

"Aye! Jew, you a 'phobe, or what?"

Cartman is staring at me with such a serious look that I immediately retort, "No."

It's true. Gay guys are cool. As long as they're not like, into me or something. Oh god, he doesn't like me, does he? I laugh inwardly. Like that would ever happen.

We walk out of the bar at two. Craig had to cut us off and kick us out, but I don't fucking care. I'm so not up to driving, but I'm planning on doing it anyway. Kenny and Cartman are walking me to the parking garage where the Kia is, laughing and belching, and generally being gross. The only reason I'm not with them is that I had to call my mom and explain why I wasn't home with her vehicle. Even half-asleep the bitch can yell.

Up ahead, the guys have reached the garage. They get in a tiny scuffle, something about something dumb. I can't really hear. I watch, amused.

I get less amused when Kenny brushes up against Cartman and I swear to fucking Christ, he giggles. Cartman obviously bristles and starts delivering a string of expletives to the lithesome blonde that consists of words I didn't even know existed. I don't know why he's upset, because Cartman even admitted himself that he's queer. Although I'm not stupid; I know gay guys don't automatically crush on every guy in sight. Ugh. That's not the point.

Now, I know that the younger generation, especially those of the female persuasion doesn't think much on this fact, because the boys they hang out with are not yet men, but no matter how you twist it men do not giggle. Sure they do, you'll argue. No. No, no, no. The occasional gay man giggles, but you know what? They're not men, they're flamers. They're an entirely different species dedicated to rainbow flags and worshipping Cher and Judy Garland! The point is that even gay men, the kind who can still call themselves men, do not giggle. So what the fuck is Kenny's deal?

I stare at him, horrified, wondering if I'm getting mixed signals or not. Is Kenny gay, or is he pretending? How could I not have noticed?

Does it matter?

I'm so fucking wasted, I can't even think straight.

I watch Kenny, who's now mock sashaying his skinny hips so that the rips in his oil stained jeans skim over inviting bits of flesh along his inner thigh. He eventually decides he can no longer keep up the façade, even to terrify Cartman, and collapses into a heap of laughter on the dirty, trash littered street we're standing on. I finally make it up to them in time to see hear his hysterical laughter close up.

"Retard," Cartman says dismissively, even though his cheeks are beet red. I don't make the mistake of thinking he likes Kenny, mostly because I know from firsthand experience that what Cartman loathes most in all the world is being embarrassed. He's blushing because Kenny just shamed the hell out of him. I guess he isn't as openly gay as he'd like to think. Kenny's still laughing. I think the poor sod might die of it.

That's not important. I wonder if he's gay. I ponder it. Kenny being gay isn't really that far a jump. He's the most open guy I know, sexually.

I make up my mind to ask him later. Maybe our conversation will go like this.

"Kenny, are you a flaming homosexual?"

"Why yes Kyle. Would you like me to stick my hot, throbbing manhood up your peephole?"

I shake my head. When the hell did I become such a sadist? I try to dismiss the entire imaginary conversation from my mind, suddenly plagued with visuals of Kenny dancing about in a pretty pink tutu and little else. My mind is not a pleasant place to live.

As if to illustrate this point, I had a sudden image of Kenny's lean, lithesome body sprawled against blue sheets, thrusting downward, bedroom eyes. Jesus, if he was a pillow biter, he was certainly a hot one.

* * *

 

I finally ask him a few days later. I'm visiting him at the garage, mostly because I like it there.

Yes, I enjoy the smell of gasoline and oil. Yes, I'm a freak.

Kenny's working under the hood of a silver SUV, a Lexus. I ask him why he was usually the only one there, trying to segue into the subject of his possible sexuality as indirectly as possible. He tells me that the owner broke his hip two months back. Kenny was in charge until his recovery was done.

"He trusts me. I've been working here as a receptionist since high school, after all. I got the mechanic job as soon as I graduated," he positively beams.

"Really?" I'm surprised, "I never knew."

Kenny's eyes are dancing, "I have a lot of secrets."

Yeah. That'd be my cue.

"About that," I shove my hands deep in my pockets, "Um…I kind of saw you joking with Cartman the other night. Was there anything to that?"

Oh yeah. Real smooth.

"Are you asking if I like boys?" Kenny asks, amused, "Or are you asking if I like Cartman?"

"That would be super weak," I say, "Liking Cartman, I mean. Do you?"

"No," Kenny shrugs, "But I'm gay."

"Gay," I echo.

"Gay," he affirms.

"Not bi?"

"Chicks are too much work," he shrugs again.

"But you love chicks."

"I love cars too. Do you see me trying to fuck this Lexus?" he taps the hood of the car he's been working on.

"Erm."

"Be more open minded, Kyle."

"I am open minded," I protest, "It's just kind of hard to grasp the fact that the kid who ogled more boobs than anyone else on Earth suddenly decided he liked cock."

Kenny licks his lips, "I can't believe I'm going to explain something psychology related to you, Mister Genius. Did you ever think I was so desperate for boobs to cover up the fact that I wanted to suck dick?"

Well…no.

"When did you get into psychology, Kenny?"

The blonde grins, "I knew this smart kid in high school. Made me think learning is kind of cool."

His smile is contagious. He declares we should take a cigarette break. He offers me one, but I decline.

I know I've kind of shocked him. In high school I was the go-to guy for cigarettes, and I only smoked Reds. Yeah, I was hardcore.

"You don't smoke anymore?"

"I promised Stan I'd quite senior year."

"You could break that promise now. I don't know if he hates you. You said he didn't, but he seems pretty darn close to not being a friend."

"He's a dickhead," I breathe, sort of hurt that he brought up Stan. We're friends. He said so. I just haven't talked to him all week.

What did I expect? I knew we weren't suddenly going to be on the phone every day, like old times. Stan's got to focus on his life, and I've got to focus on mine.

I shake my head again, "It just feels wrong to break that promise."

Kenny shrugs, "Suit yourself."

We pick up the conversation about his sexuality again. I ask him what it's like. I can't imagine wanting another guy.

"The problem with being gay," Kenny mutters as he takes a long drag on his cigarette, "Is there's no guarantee that the guys you fall for will be."

"And if they are?" I ask, curious.

"Then there's no guarantee that they'll actually like you back. It's twice as hard as being straight because there are two obstacles- the liking thing and the whole sexuality thing."

"You know, you've gotten awfully philosophical in your old age."

Kenny bristles, "Speak for yourself. You're older. I'm still a blushing boy of twenty two."

I snort, "Yeah, parts of you are blushing."

"Throbbing, pulsing, aching," Kenny continues, a lecherous smile across his face.

"Sick, dude!"

"So what did you think of Cartman?" Kenny changes the subject abruptly.

"He's changed," I mutter, "But not that much. You know, he may not have raped that girl," I laugh and glance at Kenny, "But he did hack up some kid's parents and feed them to him. And then he licked him."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm just saying, he's never been the most stable person around. Or the straightest," I shrug, "It's not so surprising he's gay now that you all got me thinking about it. He's cool enough though. I don't know if I buy that whole community service crap he was talking about."

"It's Bible truth, man," Kenny coughs, "I've seen it. He's all warm and fuzzy and gentle now."

I crack a smile, "Cartman has never been gentle."

"You think he's scary?"

"No. I mean, obvious danger aside, I've never thought he actually had the guts to hurt anyone he cares about. Like us. He cares about us."

"Oh I know," Kenny laughs, "I fucked him a few times."

I stare at him, horrified, "You what?"

"Jesus, dude. I'm kidding. I have standards."

"You do? No offense, but all you did in high school was talk about how horny you are. Plus you always had girls throwing themselves at you…"

"One or two," Kenny agreed, "But A, I didn't like easy girls. I've never…you know."

I'm still staring at him, but this time in awe, "You've never had sex? You can't still be a virgin. That's against the laws of nature."

"Kyle," Kenny says patiently, "The only girls who liked me were the trashy ones, who thought the fact I was so horny was hot."

"So?"

"Nice girls don't like overly horny guys."

"Um, again, so?"

"I wasn't going to have sex with some trashy girl!" Kenny exclaims, miffed, "For all I know the condom would break and I'd get AIDS. Or hepatitis. Or fucking genital warts. With my luck, that's how it would happen. It's the same with guys, now that I know I'm gay. On top of that I have to worry that if I bring some random guy home, he might turn out to be a serial killer. Do you know how many times I've been offed by a serial killer without inviting them into my home?"

"Um. No," I didn't want to tell him that I didn't really keep track of his deaths. No one did.

"Five. Five, Kyle. Five fucking times."

Wow. Kenny's life kind of sucks.

But I've had AIDS before. I tell him so. He just gives me a disgusted look and calls me a fag. I point out that's more his gig than mine. It's nice having friends.


	5. There's Always Something Storming Through These Evergreens

Color me confused.

After two weeks of complete and utter radio silence, Stan Marsh has finally called. I was practically jumping for joy. He wanted to hang out! We could go to a movie, or a bar, or just out for pizza. I didn't fucking care as long as he wanted to spend time with me!

Except Stan didn't want to do any of those things. He wanted to do something that by far, I found disturbing.

"Remind me again why I'm doing this?" I ask Kenny, who is standing, shivering next to me. God, if he's cold now, I wonder how he's going to feel once he's naked.

"You know Stan. He's always been concerned with doing good, making people proud of him. Like that time in Mountain Scouts," Kenny replies, teeth chattering. Even though his words come out in a terrible stutter, he has a wicked smile on his face. It scares me, just a little.

"I wasn't in Scouts," I glare at Kenny. He's always known that was a sore spot with me. Mountain Scouts was like the coolest place to be in fourth grade. I told my mom I wanted to be one too, and the answer I pretty much got is 'But bubhie, Jew Scouts is like Mountain Scouts. For Jewish little boys.' Well duh. Argument over. My mom had a way of ruining my life when I was a kid.

The wind whistles through the trees, chilling me through to the bone. I'm dressed to the tee in my warmest winter coat, hat, gloves, ski pants, and favorite pair of snow-stomping boots, but I still feel the breeze knife through my chest. Kenny wraps his arms around himself. I feel kind of bad for him. I guess. He came straight from the mechanic's shop in his oil stained coveralls, with only a feather down parka to keep him warm.

A woman with a pretty smile gets up on stage, swaying her hips. She's obviously fit, even through her padded winter wear, and I know every guy in the crowd is staring enviously at her boyfriend, who gives her a little kiss and wave from the side of the stage.

"Alright, people! Time to get ready. Now that you're all in formation, it's time to strip down! Don't chicken out, guys! Remember, this is for charity!"

"Stan and his mother fucking charity," I hiss through my teeth, my fingers fumbling through my mittens to find the zipper of my jacket. I'm reluctant to remove the thing, and it shows.

"Scared, Jew?" Cartman asks from my side. Stan roped us all into this.

"Yeah," I snort, "Scared you're going to eye rape me while I'm undressing."

Cartman makes a face, "As if."

His coat and ski pants are already off, and I really don't want to see what's beneath the jeans and shirt he wore under them. It's quite possibly the coldest winter that's ever hit South Park, but here we are, stripping down to fight the good fight. All proceeds for this event are supposedly being donated to some charity for kids with cerebral palsy. Yet that still doesn't seem a reason for me to be standing at the edge of Stark's Pond, removing my clothes.

A polar bear dive. Seriously. People in Colorado are freaks. Find me one other state in the Union where people think it might be fun to swim around in freezing cold water.

Cartman suddenly pipes up next to me, "We could make this really exciting."

He's standing barefoot on the frosted over grass, but seems unaffected by it. If I had all that blubber, I would be too. It's the first and only time I wish I was as fat as Cartman.

"I think this is exciting enough," I turn back to Kenny, who's rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet in only his simple orange swim trunks.

"What's the deal?" Kenny asks. He's too stupid to know better. Cartman has that malicious smile that means he's thinking something evil.

"How about we make this a real polar bear dive?"

"Hunh?" I ask, wondering what could make this realer. Does he want us to go fucking dive off a glacier? I'm sure I could find one nearby. It's certainly cold enough for one to be forming.

"When the ho on stage says jump, let's take off our trunks too."

"Oh Cartman," I make a face, "That is SO gay."

Kenny yelps, "Hey!"

Cartman retorts, "Aye, Jew! I am fucking gay."

I snort. Like I could forget something that funny.

It takes a minute of coaxing from Kenny to convince me that this is a good idea. I might, I might as well go all in right? Cartman makes a remark about my delicate sensibilities. Yeah, because I'm pure as driven snow. That actually used to be a theory of my friends up until high school; they thought I was a fucking prude because I have a strict mom and actually enjoy school. I guess they forgot the Catholic School Girl theory. The more introverted a person is, the wilder they get when they can. I am probably the poster child for that, evidenced by my four and a half long years at college. Stan's across the pond, closer to the stage. His blue eyes meet mine for a moment, and then dart away. Wendy's not there, I notice. I definitely would have seen her nubile little body prancing around in a bikini. Not that there aren't plenty of other scantily clad girls around.

I barely hear the babe on stage scream 'jump'. All I feel are my trunks being pulled down around my ankles by Kenny, and then suddenly a hand on my back. Next thing I know I'm floundering beneath the water, the coldness stealing my breath away. I hadn't even gotten a chance to take one back on surface. I'm fighting for air, for warmth, swimming towards the surface of the lake and thanking God that mom had made sure I had perfected swimming lessons.

Kenny's cracking up when I finally burst out of the water, hacking up a lung.

"Fuck, dude! I could have fucking died!"

A few high school girls overhear me, give me dirty looks, and swim out of my range.

I'm pretty sure my lips are blue at this point. We're technically supposed to get out of the water minutes after the dive. Sure enough, people around me are evacuating post haste. Kenny, Cartman, and I are still floating there, freezing our balls off like idiots.

"Calm down, Kyle," Kenny grunts, still half-laughing, "You made it out just fine."

"It's the principle of the matter," I cross my arms, sinking quickly back into the depths of the Pond. It's hard to tread water and appear furious at the same time.

I hear something like a beluga whale wading through the pond, turning to see Cartman splashing away. When, panting and gasping from cold, he makes it the surface of the lake; I notice he's still wearing his trunks. Irately I ask Kenny if he still has his. He does a little turn in the water so that I can see a flash of orange on his butt.

"You dickholes," I seethe.

Kenny just casts me a grin and stutters something about getting out as soon as fucking possible. I'm pissed at him, but I have to agree. Charity isn't worth hypothermia. Sorry kids.

As we crawl out of the Pond, I hear a few startled gasps at my attire, or lack thereof. I'm sure there are a few kids around, and I'm extremely apologetic that they have to see me in my nuddy-pants. I don't even like seeing myself stark ass naked. I'm skinny as hell, pale, and have freckles in weird places. It's not the most attractive combination.

Suddenly, catastrophe hits.

"I can't fucking find my clothes," I tell Kenny, still partially in the water. I decided that was the best way to hide Kyle Junior until I found my pants. A few people are getting a delicious view of the curve of my hipbones, but it's better than when I was fully commando only seconds ago.

Kenny affirms what I feared almost seconds later. My clothes are gone. Even my trunks have magically disappeared. I think it's pretty obvious who took them.

My life is shit.

I lose my best friend.

I get kicked out of school.

I have no sex life to speak of.

And now Cartman's run off with my underwear. If the sick freak wasn't so fat, I would bet money that he's hiding in the bushes trying to get his jollies off seeing how much the icy water shrunk my balls. Well he can kiss my ass. I exasperatedly climb out of the water and glance down at my balls to double check that they're just as attractive as ever. If balls can be attractive. They're all dripping wet and pruny right now, but still full-ish. Hmm…maybe attractive wasn't the best word to use.

"What the hell are you doing, Kyle?" I hear Stan's mortified voice behind me. He's all dripping wet and godly-like, and mostly clothed, so I don't think much of his anger.

"Cartman stole my clothes," I explain. Wordlessly, he hands me his towel, which is big, fluffy, and a lovely shade of cerulean. Kenny's eyes are dancing with amusement at my knight in shining armor, and I'm decently sure that I'm going to give him a fist to the gut when I'm wearing boxers once more.

"I can't believe that shithead," Stan suddenly erupts, and then lets loose a string of curses that scares away anyone who was still around to watch the show. Most people have already fled to the nearest hunting lodge, where the hosting charity is offering free cocoa.

I can't really feel my feet, and I absently wonder if that's a bad thing.

"Cartman is such a prick," Stan seethes, and I'm surprised he expected more of our friend.

"Cartman's always been a prick, dude. You don't have to be such a pussy about it," the second the words leave my mouth I realize I should have been a tad more sensitive. After all, this is Stan, who has pretty much been the same since birth; tough as hell on the outside, but a gooey steaming ball of mush on the inside. He gets awful upset when someone questions his masculinity. Kenny is the smart one this time. He pushes me aside, offering me his coat. I take it, wrapping the towel around my waist and then wondering what I can do with shoes.

Kenny is rapidly trying to diffuse the situation that hasn't even arisen yet. I can see Stan isn't going for it. His eyes harden as Kenny earnestly speaks to him. I don't think the mechanic even notices, but it makes me think maybe Stan isn't quite so happy-go-lucky as he let on. I wonder if that means he isn't really okay with the return of the prodigal super best friend.

I think about it. If Stan had dicked me over (which I guess he kind of did, but I'm big on forgiveness, so let's ignore the fact that he never called either) I think I would have been furious. I mean, okay, we both had that little communication problem, but I was the one who treated him like shit when he came to visit. In his situation, I would be seething. Maybe Stan is, and he's just a devious bastard. I wouldn't put it past him.

Okay, now I'm being paranoid and thinking about all that shit again. It's supposed to be over. Stan said he wasn't mad. So he isn't mad. Except about me calling him a pussy. I glance at his eyes again, and now he just seems exhausted.

"Kenny, I don't care. I can take an insult," his eyes flick towards me, "Especially when it's not a very good one."

I just grin dopily, hoping he'll realize I was just being a bastard like always. He grins back.

I breathe a sigh of relief. For a second there, I was scared. Not scared of being hit. Stan couldn't hit me. Even if he could, it wouldn't matter. Yup, I'm a scrappy fighter. No one fucks with me. Being the only Jew in some hick town was pretty much like having a giant red target painted on my back. Ma always said to use my words, but I found it was faster and easier to use my fists. It definitely got me close to being kicked off the basketball team about three different times.

Even Kenny, who is no pushover, knows not to fuck with me.

Stan never really learned. I think it has something to do with his stints on both the football and baseball teams. Those sports involve head dives way more than basketball; he's lost more than his fair share of brain cells over the years. So okay, he might have taken a swing at me, but it would take more than just one little insult of 'pussy'. Plus he would go down hard for even thinking of it.

Yeah, cause two boys, one half naked, wrestling in the snow…isn't homosexual at all.

I don't know what my sudden obsession with what is and isn't homo is all about. I never used to care that much, except in the way that all guys care. Like, ew, dude, don't act so faggy. Now I'm suddenly being careful to not do things that would brand me as a fudge packer. Maybe it's because Kenny and Cartman have turned out to be gay. That must be why I'm being so sensitive about it.

Stan's still grinning at me, and I feel my chest tighten. I take a step towards him and stumble.

Shit, the numbness is radiating up my legs. Time to go.


	6. Misery Comes Crawling

You know, just because I've gotten a little older and a little wilder doesn't mean I've got piss poor morals. I'm still righteously outraged when Cartman does something evil. I still love my family, and I still care about my friends. I still want to make a difference. Even if I don't know what that difference is.

So when the first job I get offered is to work for a hunting lodge, I turn it down. Not only is it not my dream job, not in Denver, not prestigious, and not well paying, but it just kills me to see dumb bastards kill helpless animals. Not as much as it would kill Stan, but hey, I've got a little bleeding heart in me yet. I think it was on my eighth hunting trip with Jimbo and the gang that I started seeing the pointlessness in killing little Bunny Foofoo. And y'know, Stan stopped going on the trips, which meant we all did too. After all, two old men taking a bunch of little boys they weren't related to into the woods just screamed 'weird'.

The main point being that I've gotten offered exactly one job, and I turned it down. Looks like I'm going to have to start applying to some fast food chains.

Eurgh. Like that would ever happen. I don't like to know how the food I eat gets made. It's bad for digestion.

My mom flips. We end up fighting. Again. You would think the fact that I'm twenty three and perfectly capable of making my own decisions would occur to her, but no. Apparently I should have taken the offer and made myself a productive member of society, at least until I could land something better. Yeah, because murdering baby deer is totally productive. The only thing I see that getting me is sued by PETA.

I essentially storm off. It's a weekend, so I can't really steal her car and run off to Denver. She's been using public transportation to do whatever it is she likes to do during the day, but I'm under the impression she thinks it's high time I get a car of my own. I wish I had that kind of money. My parents do, but they tell me they've already sunk too much into my school fees and that if I want anything, I should get off my fucking ass and start handling some responsibility.

Fuck responsibility. I'm too young and too antsy for that. I guess it's funny that someone as school-minded as I am doesn't want a job, or you know, didn't even graduate. It isn't that I don't like school, either. I love studying. I love learning. My grades weren't even the issue when I got kicked out. Well, some of them were, but let's just ignore that. I just don't want a job. I don't want to be stuck in some nine to five hell, like Stan. The guy seems pretty happy, but I really don't have the kind of insight I'd need to tell.

Speaking of Stan, I manage to run headlong into him on the way to Stark's Pond. I'm walking there because…well because Kenny's working, mom's a bitch, and I've got nowhere else to go. That's sad in and of itself.

So I'm walking, hands shoved into little balls in the pockets of my thick down parka, which is a shade of Kelly green that supposedly matches my eyes, according to my asshole mother. She just loves brandishing her power when it comes to buying me clothes. It was a Hanukah gift. I suppose it looks good on me. I don't know. Anyway, I'm staring at the ground trying carefully not to slip on the ice. It's nearly the end of fucking February, and the ground is still hard and frozen. As I step off the curb into the street I glance up, only to be met with the most intense sapphire colored eyes I've ever seen. It takes me a minute to realize they belong to Stan.

I lose my footing, my feet flying out from beneath me. I don't even have time to brace myself for the hard landing that's about to leave black and blue bruises on my butt for a month.

It never comes. Warm calloused hands are wrapped around my waist. Stan had caught me. He probably used those reflexes that made him the star athlete of our school system. Basketball had never given me reflexes like that. Good to know his hadn't dulled, I'm sure they came in useful. In fact I know they do. My head is barely a foot from the ground, dangling awkwardly. Cautiously, Stan pulls me back up, and I land against his chest with an 'oomph'.

"You okay, dude?"

I can tell he knows I am. His eyes are dancing with amusement. I can't believe I never realized how deeply blue they are.

Suddenly disgusted with myself, I push lightly away from him. His hands immediately release my waist, finding a resting place in the back pockets of his faded jeans.

"Yeah, thanks for catching me," I mutter, "I'm so damned clumsy."

He grants me a toothy grin, "What are you doing out here?"

"Walking to the Pond. You?" I shove my hands back in my pockets. Even through my gloves, I'm pretty sure that frostbite is beginning to set in. This is why my little brother thinks I'm a hypochondriac.

Stan gives me a funny look, "Why?"

"Bored," I reply. He hasn't answered my question, I notice. Bastard.

"I'm heading to my apartment to grab lunch. Do you want to come?"

Free food? I'm there.

* * *

 

Barely half an hour later I'm staring at a jar full of tomato garlic sauce, some diced onion, dry pasta, and a pot full of cold water. Stan's hard at work trying to microwave some leftover chicken that Wendy made the night prior. I don't know why I didn't get that job.

I stare at the pot of water. I know I'm supposed to do something with it. In my own kitchen I probably could have managed, maybe. Stan's stove has about fifty dials on it, and I don't want to look like an idiot. My kitchen only has four dials, and I still am not entirely sure how to use them.

"What are you doing, Kyle?"

I glance at him with a scowl, "Um."

"You can't cook," Stan looks at me as I stare helplessly at the ingredients on the counter.

"Well…I can microwave things," I tell him, "And I make mean Easy Mac."

Actually, Easy Mac and Velveeta are pretty much the extent of my culinary skills, and even then only because I had to fend for myself when my meal plan ran out at the end of each semester. Stan's still kind of shocked, but I mean what does he expect? I have a strict Jewish mother who coddles the hell out of me. It's not like I ever needed to learn how to cook. Hell, the first time I learned how to wash my own clothes was freshman year of college, and for the first half I had one of my girlfriends doing it for me.

"You can't boil water," he gestures to the pot, "How the hell can you make Easy Mac?"

"I microwave the water in a mug," I reply sensibly.

"Kyle," Stan starts, but then shakes his head, "Move over."

"I could do it," I object, even though I can't really tell the difference between the vegetables. I know all the easy ones, but what the hell is that funny looking one with all the ridges, and why does that long stemmed weed looking thing smell kind of like onion?

"I know you can," Stan says simply, "You're the smartest guy I know. I'm just going to teach you how."

Stan was going to teach me how to cook.

It turns out Stan can't really cook much. His knowledge is limited to pasta, pancakes, and sizzling steaks, but I think that's also all he eats. He's always been a picky eater.

"You know who cooks well?"

"Who?" I ask. I expect him to say Cartman, because honestly the guy's such a pig. Then I realize that Cartman would hardly lift a finger to prepare food. That's servants' work- oops, I mean his mom's. Same thing.

"Kenny."

"Kenny can cook?"

"Yeah. He can bake, too."

He has to explain that baking is the process of making things in the oven, like cookies and pastries, because of the blank look I gave him at that comment.

"When the hell did Kenny learn how to cook?"

"About the time he got his own apartment," Stan explains, "He always loved food. Maybe because he didn't get enough of it. The second he got his fridge working, he stocked it full of goodies and taught himself how to make them. He's not like, a top chef or anything, but he definitely can cook."

I tell myself that I'm going to force Kenny to take me to his place one of these days instead of wandering aimlessly or hitting up a rundown bar. Then I'll make him prepare me food. I'm getting pretty sick of mom's cooking, a feat that I never thought possible back in university, when all I wanted was a decent meal.

The pasta Stan makes is fine. It's not amazing or anything, just fine. The chicken is better, even reheated, and Stan said that Wendy is a decent chef herself. It's one of the things he loves about her.

I can't stop myself. With a mouth full of chicken and pasta, I mumble, "Then why do you cheat on her?"

All the color drains from his face. Was there some unwritten rule that I wasn't supposed to ask? I half expect him to snap that I should mind my own business. Then his face relaxes.

"I'd forgotten you saw that."

That's all? That's all he has to say?

Apparently not. He takes a bite of pasta and then says thoughtfully, "I don't really know why I do it. I mean…sex with strangers is kind of exhilarating. But that's not a reason…"

I'm not exactly entranced by his answer. Trying to be as tactful as I can, I utter, "How many people have you…you know, since you got with Wendy?"

Stan sort of starts silently ticking off his fingers, but by the time he runs out of digits I realize I no longer want to know the answer. It doesn't matter anyway because he shrugs and chuckles, "Don't really remember."

I wanted to be friends with him again. I was desperate for him to forgive me. Deep down, the guilt I felt about acting like a dickhole never really faded. The thing was…Stan outshone me. I wasn't embarrassed of him; every one of my friends liked him. I was embarrassed because Stan has always been better than me. That's why I stopped calling. By the time I realized I was being an idiot, it was too awkward, too late. I'm a fucktard, I know. It's the one thing in my life I regret. Yet here, sitting in his and Wendy's kitchen, listening to him tell me he doesn't even know how many people he's slept with- how many people he's cheated on his girlfriend with- I sort of resent him for making me feel all that guilt. I loathe him for making me want to be friends again with some guy who's obviously become a plague to women-kind. It's sort of a built in reaction; my mom raised me to be chivalrous. I know most girls don't want a knight in shining armor anymore, but even so, I've always felt protective over chicks. Knowing that Stan fucks them and then fucks them over…well, it isn't sitting right.

At the same time…I know Stan. I know he can't sit through serious movies without fidgeting or falling asleep. I know he's always been naturally talented at sports, but he just doesn't care. That's why he never got a baseball or football scholarship, even though he was pretty much the MVP of both high school teams. I know he's got a temper, but it takes forever to rile him up. He can be a little slow to catch on, but he's smart. He's always been a little bit scared that Cartman is going to kill him in his sleep. He's too eager to please every girlfriend he's ever had. And me, once upon a time.

He wants so desperately to belong, but the thing is he never really does. That's why he always hung out with the three of us. I mean I'm pretty much a nerd, Kenny's always been a poor, horny, bastard, and Cartman's well…Hitler Junior. Stan was always the one that didn't seem to fit. Even I always kind of wondered why someone so perfect would spend all his time with freaks like us. He was the only thing that made us kind of cool. Then Wendy dumped him the first time and Raven came out. He started venting by writing gothic poetry and talking about the virtues of straight edge razors. That's about when I realized that Stan had issues too. He was just extremely good at hiding the fact he has a dark side. Even after Raven disappeared again, I watched him for any slip ups. In eighth grade when I noticed his hair had gotten a shade of black pitcher than before, I made him sleep over at my house for a week. In high school, when he broke his collar bone playing baseball and couldn't go outside, I found poetry about funeral pyres in his drawer. I burned them and made sure he always had company to keep him occupied. It's hard for him to accept the dark parts of himself because he's so occupied with trying to be a good person. That's why Raven exists.

I don't really care about being good. I care about injustice. I care about correcting wrongs. But not because I think its good; just because I think it's right. I don't mind if I do things that are a little evil sometimes, as long as I'm always doing the right thing in the end. Good and right are entirely different things.

This cheating douchebag isn't the guy I know.

He notices the way I'm staring at him. Appalled. Repulsed. He gets angry.

"Don't fucking judge me Kyle. You of all people have no right to fucking judge me.

Stan's a guy of action. I guess I am too, but we go about it different. If Stan sees something wrong, he freaks, stresses, and then does whatever he can to fix it. If I see something wrong, I lose my temper and usually try yelling until it's fixed.

I think he's in the freaking stage currently. The problem is, what needs to be fixed is me, and I don't plan on being swayed.

"I'm not judging you, assmaster. I'm just fucking thinking that you must really be hurting Wendy."

"It can't fucking hurt her if she doesn't fucking know," Stan snarls.

Oh god. What happened to my super best friend?

* * *

 

Stan all but kicks me out of his house. I'm pretty certain I've ruined all chances of social interaction between us for a while.

Kicking a boot deep into a snow bank, I decide I don't fucking care if Kenny's working. I need to talk to him. I hitch a ride to the mechanic's, making up some lie about needing to get towed to the gray bearded man who is stupid enough to pull over and pick me up. The entire way there I'm thinking doesn't he know he shouldn't pick up hitchhikers? I could be a serial killer, for all he knows. Then again, he could be one too, so I'm equally stupid in this equation.

I find Kenny under the hood of a beat up old Saab. I think he's changing the oil, but the truth is I know next to nothing about cars. Fuck, I can't cook and I can't tell the difference between this and that part of an engine. I really am spoiled.

"Kenny," I say. He jumps, head slamming up and into the sheet metal of the hood.

He lets off a string of expletives that are way more creative than anything I could have thought up, ending with, "-Kyle, you fucker! Don't you ever think about sneaking up on me again."

I half shrug by way of apology, and he lets it go. Kenny never holds a grudge.

"So what's new?" he asks, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

"I got in an argument with that dickhead, Stan," I say apologetically.

"Somehow I knew this was coming. What over?"

"The fact that he thinks cheating is an acceptable form of foreplay."

Kenny's eyes light up, "Ah. I've had that argument with him too."

"I feel so fucking bad for Wendy."

"Why? You hardly know her. She moved away so long ago."

"I remember her from elementary. Anyway, what Stan's doing just isn't right," I grimace. Kenny motions for me to follow him outside, which I do. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his coveralls, ignoring the fact that he's getting little brown-black grease stains all over the packet of Marlboros.

"Kyle, don't worry about it too much. Wendy's a princess. She's a lot like you- she believes in what is right over what's good, but when what is right and good get in the way of what she wants, then screw it all. Wendy gets what she wants. Always. She can be sweet, but she can be oblivious, and she can be cruel too."

Kenny sighs. I think he's spent a lot of time thinking this over, "She's not one thing or the other. She's all things. That was kind of what Stan always liked about her I think. If he was just with some bitch, it would have gotten on his nerves, and if he was just with a sweet girl, he would feel overwhelmed with guilt about not loving her. But Wendy's a survivor. She wants to be a lawyer someday. She needs to dominate and manipulate, but she needs to get taken care of too."

"Stan's not taking care of her."

"Stan's cheating on her," Kenny corrects me firmly, "That doesn't mean he isn't taking care of her. He's completely kind to her face. He practically buys her affection with all the shit he's constantly getting her. I mean, he's pretty much any broad's ideal man. That's what Wendy wants."

"Why is he doing it?"

Kenny opens his mouth. Then he closes it.

"One of the great fucking mysteries of the universe," he finally says, "Whatever happened to Stanley Randall Marsh?"

I laugh harshly, because that's not an answer. He's giving me a strange look.

"Kyle," Kenny begins with serious eyes, releasing his cigarette. It falls forgotten into the snow, but I have bigger problems. He's trailing his fingers up and down my chest in a rather distracting fashion. I don't know whether to smack him or to just ignore it. My parka's hanging open, giving him pretty much full access to the button down beneath.

"Erm," I eventually reply, because his fingers occasionally graze the bits of skin beneath the buttons of my shirt. Despite this being mildly disturbing, I find it's not altogether unpleasant.

"You know, you shouldn't let this whole thing with Stan worry you. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself," Kenny smiles elusively, his eyes not really in it, "He has been for over four and a half years."

"But that's my fault," I bite my tongue the second that comes out of my mouth. Stan forgave me. That whole ditching him thing, it's over! So why can't I stop fucking thinking of it?

"It doesn't matter. Guilt is supposed to help you deal with the negative emotions you've put into the world, and grief is supposed to help cleanse you of them. You haven't dealt," Kenny tells me decisively, making me wonder if he's thought a lot about this too, "Blaming yourself is just your defense mechanism so that you won't get hurt just in case Stan secretly blames you too. But really, it's the past. You need to move on."

"I have moved on," I shuffle my feet guiltily, "Mostly."

Kenny's cobalt eyes bore into me, "Have you had a single real relationship since you and Stan stopped talking?"

"I've had plenty of girlfriends," I reply angrily, thinking he's implying that I'm like him. Gay. The word tastes bitter on my tongue. I stumble back into the wall of the auto body shop, shoving his distracting, limber fingers away. Kenny shakes his head impatiently.

"You're too quick on the defense, Kyle. What's the longest you've dated one of those girls for? Do you have any really close friends? Any best friends? Other than moi, of course."

I laugh when he demurely flutters his eyelashes to accent the 'moi'. But really, his words are grating on me. Okay, so what if the last girl I dated didn't last longer than a week, and most of the girls before her were one night stands? I'm a college aged male. It's natural. Anyway, I dated this one girl for…three months. That might not look stellar, but there was another one…who lasted almost six. I realize Kenny's going to take those answers and throw them right back in my face, so I keep mum on the girlfriend front. Friends I can definitely say I've had a few of. Why I could name at least ten…

Shit. If I can name ten close friends, then why haven't I gotten a single one to call me back in the past two months for more than a nanosecond?

"When did you get so fucking smart, artard?"

Kenny grins, looking for all the world like the cat that caught the canary. He replies primly, "I've always been this way."

Then he jabs me in the chest, "You were just too caught up in Stan when we were younger to realize it."

"Fag."

"You're one to talk, mister-I'm-going-to-go-play-with-my-super-best-friend-and-nobody-else-is-invited-so-there."

"I never kissed a boy," I stick my tongue out impetuously, knowing it's not helping me win the argument.

"I never played doctor with Cartman," Kenny deadpanned, "And Stan told me for sure that was your favorite game together."

Shit. I'd forgotten about that.

"I was checking for tumors!" I protest, outraged.

"On his penis?"

"Stan told me I had to check everywhere!"

Kenny clicks his tongue, "Uh hunh."

"I was six!" I say wildly. Kenny just shakes his head.

I'm pretty sure I'm pouting now, but I respond, "Go to hell."

"Been there, several times. Parties rock. Weather, not so much," he replies cheekily, and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to smack him.

"Don't come up with such fucking cliché answers, Ken," I tell him. He laughs.

Then he sobers again. I don't know how he can go from one extreme to the other so quickly.

"Seriously," Kenny begins again, "You can depend on somebody. It's okay."

"I'm as fucking fragile as you think, Kenny. But thanks."

He scowls, "I never called you delicate, doofus. I'm just saying I know you blame yourself for abandoning him…but he abandoned you all the same. There's no need to keep punishing yourself. Hell, if you don't like the fact that Stan's turned into such a douche, you're not even obligated to be friends with him. Not anymore."

I shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Kenny's a really sweet guy. I'm not really used to dudes being sweet though. It makes me uneasy. Talking about my feelings has always come kind of easily for me, so I guess it's kind of surprising that I get antsy when other people talk about theirs or offer me any kind of support. It's all fine if you talk about your emotions when no one is going to do a damned thing about it, but when they meet you half way with open arms it's sort of unsettling. For me, at least.

I nervously tell Kenny to mind his own fucking business, to which he grins and asks if I want to go to a strip club. I tell him I'm not interested in seeing another guy's junk, to which he responds that gay or not, he still likes boobs. They're fascinating to him, apparently. Something about the bounciness. The tension in my shoulders dissolves. This is more normal. I can deal with this.


	7. Who Cares When The Lightning Starts

I'm at the strip club, facing the worst surprise of my life. Kenny led me to his favorite back booth, where his favorite stripper is due to come service us shortly.

And what to my wondering eyes does appear, but a fat tub of lard cradling an empty martini glass. He takes one look at me and sighs, "Kyle, goddamnit."

Funny. I want to say the same exact thing back. I turn to Kenny, giving him my best 'Why the fuck is Cartman here?' look. I perfected that in high school. Kenny grins sheepishly, which really doesn't answer my question. He leans over Cartman and snatches up his martini glass, giving the fat boy a disgusted look when he discovers it's empty.

Cartman scowls, and makes a play for the glass, "Get the fuck away, Supergay."

"Hunh," Kenny remarks, his blonde hair catching the colors of the flashing lights of the club, "I would have thought Superfag would be a more appealing title for you."

The brunette rolls his eyes, "Supergay rolls off the tongue more easily. I met some gaysian down at that club in Boulder who called himself that."

"Gaysian?" I ask, but I've already got the gist of it. Gay plus Asian. Somehow I really didn't need to know that term.

"Yeah, there's an Asian gay club in Boulder," Kenny grins. I think he's figured out that talking about this stuff grosses me out. He enjoys that fact.

"They're such 'mo's there," Cartman scowls, even though he pretty much ultimately admitted that he has yellow fever. Which reminds me. Why the hell is he in a strip club? I ask him this much, and he sort of mutters under his breath that while the place smells like pussy, which in turn smells like decomposing fish, they have the cheapest drinks in town.

"Today's a drinking day," he adds. I guess I can agree with that. Grudgingly, I take a seat next to him. I want to forget the fact that Stan's a dickhead. I want to forget the fact that for some reason, I can't get him out of my head.

Cartman, surprisingly, orders us up a round of drinks. I don't even complain that they're Gibsons, which are gin martinis with fucking cocktail onions in them. I mean, who eats cocktail onions? They pucker your lips into…okay, now I just want to stop that train of thought right there. The words Cartman and cock-sucking-lips do not ever need to coincide in my brain. I try to think of a different pair of lips, but all I come up with is that brunette bitch Stan drove his cock into. Shit. Now I'm thinking of Stan, thrusting and…

Oh god. Concentrate on the pretty strip club, with it's pretty dancing naked women, and the fact that I'm here with my two gay friends.

Before I can start panicking about the bad place my mind is in, a pretty girl with shapely hips and fiery hair prances over to us. She's wearing a sequined bra and the tiniest g-string I've ever seen. My mind has snapped back to hetero-land.

The stripper giggles, and I see that her eyes are lined with rhinestones and fake feather duster lashes. A streak of metallic blue highlights her irises, but to tell the truth I'm more occupied by the fact that her boobs are practically bursting out of her bustier. On the other side of Cartman I hear Kenny mutter, "Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy."

Geez. He's like a little boy. A gay, breast fetishist, little boy.

Our drinks arrive, but I don't even think we glance at the waitress in thanks. The stripper has all our attention.

"Hi, I'm Passion," she says, drawing her name out long and slow. Her lips are ruby red and luscious. Now those are cock sucking lips, and I don't associate them with Cartman or Stan.

Maybe Kenny, since he knows her.

Double shit. I down my Gibson with little more than a wince. I've never been a gin fan.

The waitress is still there, and she hurries off to fetch me another. Passion starts winding sinuously in front of us. Man, this chick is hot. I can't take my eyes off her. I'm starting to feel a lot better about the fact that my friends are all either gay or complete and utter pricks. As long as Passion keeps shaking her butt like that.

Two hours and ten drinks later, Passion has made at least three hundred bucks off us, as have her friends Tangerine and Kitty. I think the redhead is still Kenny's favorite though, although I kind of like Tangerine's dark, raven colored hair.

"Thanks, Red!" Kenny screams as Passion once more sashays away from us. We're drinking hard now, so I bet on her being back within half an hour. Why give up on a good thing? It's still the middle of the day, and the club is pretty much empty except for us dickholes.

"No problem, cutie," she winks at us all.

"Red?" I burp, looking at Kenny, "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"She went to school with us," Kenny replies happily, "You and Stan peeked at her in the locker room that one time and got a month's worth of detention."

"Oh."

OH! That bitch gave me the first detention of my life. Her boobs have certainly gotten bigger. I start laughing hysterically. Cartman decides to remedy that by forcing another nasty Gibson down my throat. Fucking hick drink. Can't we have something cool, like a vodka martini with a twist, like James Bond. Shaken, not stirred.

I'm wasted, if you can't tell.

Cartman's been pulling bills out all night, paying for the drinks and strippers like it's no big deal. I wish I had that kind of money. I'd be downing Patron and sitting in a much classier gentleman's club than this; perhaps 'Eyeliner', the establishment I always see in Denver. I only ever see guys in Armani suits walking in and out of that joint.

I tell Cartman this. His response is weird.

"I always liked you, Kyle," Cartman tells me casually. My ears perk up. What is this I hear? Is he finally going to apologize for all those years of brutal bullying? Is liquor finally sending his tongue wagging in guilt over all his misdeeds?

Sadly, no.

Like I give a fuck; every time he tried shit with me, I gave it right back to him. We've both taken the hits and the insults, even if mine were usually on the defensive.

Cartman grins and continues, "You were always a devious bastard, just like myself."

"Excuse me?" I choke out.

"Yeah. You had some of the scariest ideas of any of us."

"Don't put me on the same level as you, fatass."

"Why?" Cartman asks innocently, "It's a compliment."

Yeah right. Being compared to the tub of lard; something I imagined only in my wildest nightmares.

"I am nothing like you," I seethe.

"Well, not now, since I've turned to the Lord and let him show me my true path," Cartman simpers, "But before…you've never backed down, you've never given up on anything. You never took shit, from anyone. I heard a few people back in high school wanted to gang up on you and take you down a few notches 'cause you were such a smug bastard. I almost wish they had. It would have been one hell of a show."

I think, in some twisted way, he's trying to be nice. I think. I've been wrong before.

"The only one of us who was ever a weak link way that way-" he eyes me, "-and by that way I mean acting like a total pussy and letting himself be used as a fucking doormat, was that bitch Stan."

"Don't talk that way about him," I say automatically, although I'm not feeling up to defending my once BFF right now. Cartman senses that and for once, doesn't pursue it. I'm not fooled. His inner prick, which is easily confused with his outer obnoxious jackass, is waiting to come out.

Kenny decides it's his turn to try out dancing, and leaps up onto stage with Red. She's amused, but the owner of the bar decidedly is not. He kicks us out. Bastard.

This is when it happens. The most horrific day in my life. I know a lot of people are skeptical about that. Like what about the time I got plastic surgery to be black and then my knees exploded and I practically bled to death? Or what about the time Cartman gave me AIDS? Or what about the time Indiana Jones was raped right in front of me? Or that other time…

God, I've had a lot of bad shit happen to me.

This is definitely the worst.

Kenny's around the side of Quickie Check, the convenience store near his apartment where we stopped to pick up some eats. None of us wanted food. We were all just scared we'd die of alcohol poisoning.

Anyway, Kenny's around the side, puking his brains out. It's way harsh. Cartman and I are standing in the library next door, mostly because this place is close to my house, and I'm scared shitless than in the late afternoon sun, my mom will see me loitering and piss drunk. Nothing puts the fear of Moses in me like my mom.

I sort of tried to see if Kenny needed help, but all he did was grin at me with a little trail of vomit down the side of his mouth and say, "Just admit you want to bone me, and we'll be alright."

Um, no. So I backed off and decided Cartman was my best resort. We opted to go in the library so I could hide and Cartman could borrow a copy of _Mein Kampf._ Anti-Semitic homo.

"Kahl," Cartman sings out, his fingers running along the bookshelf full of books on that German pig he loves. I know he can say my name proper-like, so he's pretty much doing that to annoy me. If I was more sober, it would probably work, "Did you have fuuuun?"

"Sure," I grunt, nibbling on this turkey and cheese sandwich that tastes like it was made from construction paper.

"How much fuuuuuun?"

Jesus. Cartman sounds like someone slipped him an acid tablet. He continues his ministrations on the books, searching out that one that says, 'Hey, you can be a Nazi if you try to'. Found Jesus, my foot.

"Lots of fun," I mutter, still attempting to chew up my first bite of sandwich. This is gross.

"I bet I could make you have more fuuuuuuuuun."

Okay. Drawing out his syllables is getting obnoxious.

"Whatever you say fatass-"

My voice is cut off. I'm choking. I'm choking on the smell of ham and cheesy poofs, and the fact that there's a rather large mouth covering mine. I can't breathe. Shit, I'm-I'm-I'm….

I'm fucking being kissed by Eric Cartman!

Fight. That's my first instinct. All that testosterone raging around in my body is practically moving my limbs for me, pushing Cartman away. I don't even pause to think that I enjoyed the kiss, because it's not even a plausible thought to my mind. How could I enjoy a kiss with Eric Cartman?

Cartman's probably the only one in the world who handles rejection like a professional. As he stumbles back against the bookcase he uses the same momentum that's about to drop him to the floor to bounce right back up again and bound to me like an angry guard dog. His hot breath is back on my face in seconds, smelling vaguely like peanut butter.

"Fuck you, Jew," he breathes as he forces his mouth upon mine once more. He swings us around so that he can push me savagely against the bookcase he was just introduced to, and I find that even with all my strength I can't force him away. The alternative is knocking down the rows and rows of literature behind me by tipping the bookcase backwards, but I like this library and really don't want to get kicked out for destruction of property.

His tongue worms in between my lips. Without meaning too, I clutch at the cloth of his jacket.

A wave of nausea turns my stomach. Cartman presses his body full against mine, hard and soft in places I'm not quite used to. But God, does that feel good. Suddenly the sick feeling in my tummy is replaced by a different, better one, like heat and electricity. I'm responding to the kiss. I tell myself it's because there's no way I'll escape unless I-gag- kiss him back. I've never been all that good at lying.

I'm disgusted with myself, because I haven't been kissed this way in a long time, and it doesn't even seem to matter that my tongue's currently locked in battle with Cartman's. There's no denying that passion is fueling this idiocy; years of pent up rage and frustration, and the way the brunette boy is grinding his hips against mine is really shading my thoughts right now. His lips are on my neck, sucking and pulling, his tongue lathering my skin.

He's making me horny.

I don't even get to process how wrong that is because his mouth is pressing so hard against mine now that I'm sure I'll bruise, and he's rubbing against me with this sort of urgency that makes me think he's only seconds away from cumming in his damn jeans.

"I hate you so, so much," he whispers against my lips, and I'm at full mast. I'm thrusting my pelvis into the front of his jeans, where I feel this warmth that makes my abdomen tingle. I groan, not caring that anyone could hear. I don't even care that I'm probably pressed up against Hitler's autobiography, making out with the German man's most avid devotee. All I care about is getting closer. My hands move of their own accord, sliding up Cartman's back, then down, then to the flesh beneath his layers. His skin feels soft and firm, and for the first time I realize that he wasn't entirely lying about being big boned. Oh Moses. I want to bang Eric Cartman right here and now.

"Hey guys…" Kenny trails off as the two of us snap apart. My hair is tousled, my lips are red, and I'm blushing profusely. There's no fucking way he didn't see that. I look at Cartman and see he pretty much has sex-hair himself. Fuck me. Fuck me over and over and over again. I don't even know what just happened, and I'm really wanting to blame it on the alcohol.

The only problem being that make out session just completely sobered me up.

* * *

 

I'm in Kenny's apartment. It's a nice place. I'm actually surprised. He's got hardwood floors and a fireplace, which is pretty much a miracle in this part of town. He's also got a full kitchen that's gleaming in a way that screams he never, ever uses it. Except I distinctly remember Stan telling me that Kenny cooks. Food for thought. Bad pun. I think I'm verging on hysteria, and not in the good way.

"I'm not really surprised," Kenny tells me. We're relaxing in front of his TV, watching a hockey game. Originally we were hinging on football and beer, but football made me guiltily think of Stan, and I think I'm joining fucking AA after what happened earlier with Cartman, so beer was out.

I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. I do it anyway, "Why not?"

"Cartman has always had this sick obsession with you. I think being gay like naturally transferred it to love."

I choke on my ginger ale, coughing and sputtering, "Sick dude. Cartman does not fucking love me!"

Kenny eyes me curiously, "Are you sure about that?"

I'm not sure about anything, but I'm not about to tell Kenny something that weak. I turn my eyes back to the game. It's the Bruins versus the Devils. They both are sucking royally right now.

Eventually he starts up again, "Did you like it?"

"No!" I yelp. There is no way I'm telling him the truth.

His face falls a little, "That's too bad."

"What? Why?" I wince, "I'm not fucking gay, Kenny."

"I know," he shrugs, "Bisexual maybe."

"Bi-bisexual? No fucking way. Stop messing with me, asshole."

"Kyle, I'm not messing with you. I'm just saying, that from my point of view, you seemed to like what Cartman was doing."

"He had me trapped," I mutter.

"He gave you a hickey," Kenny replies. My hand flies to the side of my neck. Son of a whore. The skin there is slightly tender. It better not be a fucking big one, because my mother will have my hide.

"You liked it," Kenny continues.

"That's wicked retarded, Kenny. I did not like it."

"I understand if you're having issues with your sexuality."

"I am not having issues with my sexuality. I'm not gay. Stop being a prick about this."

"Okay," Kenny settles back down on the couch, "I wouldn't mind…If you were gay."

"I would."

"You'd make a great boyfriend."

"Stop pressing this, Kenny."

"I'm just saying Kyle. If you decide to come out…I'm here for you."

It's about then that Kenny's words start hitting me. I glance at my friend, whose eyes are trained hopefully on me rather than the fact that Bruins just made the best play of this whole damned game so far.

He's being a good friend, I tell myself.

He inches closer to me on the couch.

God fucking damnit.


	8. Abuse Is Too Many Excuses

I'm at Craig's bar. I'm at Craig's bar, primarily because I have nowhere else to go.

My mom is crazed. She's found me jobs at the local grocery and Denny's, just to tide me over. With their powers combined, I'd be making eight dollars an hour. What, is it a crime now to mooch off my parents like all the other college dropouts? She acts like it is. Working two jobs would suck. Like how Clyde Donovan's dad was a geologist and owned a shoe store at the same time, and never had any time to play football with his son.

I don't know why that memory stands out from when I was young. Probably because I always thought it sucked for Clyde.

Aside from the perils of sharing a house with my mother, two of my friends are completely and totally gay for me. Okay, so I'm sort of guessing about Kenny. He hasn't made any overt moves towards me, and I'm really...probably...not one of those 'just because a person is gay, they must want my hot little ass' guys. It's just…little things. I could be completely off base, which I hope I am. I'm probably just unnerved because fatass fucking tried to suck my face off. I still can't believe fucking Cartman mauled me in a library, although it could have just been all the copies of _Mein Kampf_ urging him on.

Oh, and Stan won't talk to me. At all, ever since the whole scene where I got slightly mightier than thou when we discussed his extracurriculars. I even sucked up the fear that Kenny might try to bend me over the side of his workbench just to ask him to call Stan for me. He did. I listened in. Their conversation basically covered the fact that I'm a major asshole, and that I don't really deserve to breathe the same air as Stan. Arrogant bastard. I hope he chokes on Wendy's home cooking.

I don't know which of these things bug me more.

So I'm at Craig's bar, mostly because his bar gives me cheap drinks and the longer I stay in Denver, the longer my mom thinks I've dedicated myself to the job hunt. I've been offered two more jobs by now, from persons other than my mother. The first is a minor position at a publishing company that I'm considering taking. The only problem is that the pay is shit. The second is as a PR assistant for Planned Parenthood. Do I even need to tell you what's wrong with that job? I can just imagine getting beaned in the head with a brick by Christian Rights Groups and Pro-Life Activists.

I frown at the filthy mirror behind the bar, catching a blurry glimpse of green that can only belong to my eyes. Everything else in the bar is brown, black, clear, or an interesting electric shade of blue. Whatever is in those particular bottles is obviously not meant for human consumption, but we alcoholics always have to try these things.

Where the fuck did Craig disappear to? I've spent the past hour here, waiting to be served on by someone other than this macho looking barback named Don, who can't mix drinks for shit. I guess I was sort of hoping Craig might lend me an ear as well; it's not like I have anyone else to talk to. We were kind of friends, once upon a time. Plus Don keeps trying to talk me into some drink that I'm almost positive should be rightfully called a Fruity Fucking Ball Grazer, although the barback had a much fancier name for it. I would take him up on his offer if he could figure out how to make something that didn't err on the side of too much piss rum and too little fucking coke.

A pretty blonde cocktail waitress prances by, but no Craig. Damn. Girl had a great rack though. Don't think she even needed that tray to balance those shot glasses on.

Funny, girls have been less of a priority lately; even checking them out has sort of seemed like work. That's probably because South Park is full of ugly bitches with half their teeth…Damned redneck prisses.

I lean back on my bar stool to appreciate more of the blonde waitress's assets, figuring I haven't got anything better to do. With any luck, she'll notice and slap me, or better yet, slip me her number. I guess I'm a redneck through and through as well, because I've always been of the opinion that a slap is just another form of affection. I got mistaken for a masochist in New England…often.

You know that old spiel about how guys are no better than dogs? I'm relatively certain that's true. All it takes is a whiff of ass, and we're creaming our boxers and craning our necks to get a better view. It's awesome. No, really. I wouldn't have it any other way. I just don't understand girls. They'll let a hot guy prance by without batting an eyelash. They're missing out on a great view. Not that I watch guys, or think they're hot for that matter. Fanfuckingtastic. Now I'm rambling on like the biggest fuckwit in the world.

Suddenly, I hear the most welcome voice in the world.

"Bitchface," Craig crows from somewhere, possibly the room hidden behind the bar that allows employee access only, "I totally pounded your ass…"

I wonder who he's talking to. I don't have long to wait and see; Craig finally emerges from exactly where I suspected he would. His hair is all rumpled, but his fancy clothes are as pressed and starched as the last time I saw him. He's buttoning the top button of his collar. Hmm, me thinky Mister Bar Owner got some action. I wonder who Craig was fucking back there, and if the ass pounding he mentioned was literal. I can't really imagine him saying that to a girl though, and trust me, back in high school Craig Tucker was King. He always landed the hottest chicks. If there's any doubt that he was sexing it up in that room, he turns his face towards the bar, towards me, and I see a ginormous fucking hickey on his neck. Oh yeah.

There's an abrupt, unexpected silence when he sees my face. I could tell he'd still been mid conversation with his mystery lover, but now he's just gaping unattractively at me. If anything, the silence grows larger seconds after he decides to lamely add minutes after his previous statement, "…at that game. I so pounded your ass…at that game."

He says it once more, firmly this time.

"What the fuck are you on about?" a decidedly masculine voice asks in reply, "Banging like that isn't a game."

"Shut the hell up," Craig tells the owner of the voice.

"Craig," the voice wearily says back, "Chill out dude."

Hey, whoever that is sounds oddly familiar.

Craig opens his mouth, obviously wanting to tell the person to shut it once more, but not wanting to say their name. The person saves them the trouble.

See Stan come out of the back room. See me gasp in shock. See Craig put his head in his hands in embarrassment, a rarely seen sentiment from him. See Stan see me.

Hunh, I wonder where Wendy is?

My former super best friend turns a glare on me that could quite possibly melt the polar ice caps.

See me shiver in barely suppressed fear. I wonder if Stan would try to murder me. I could fight back, of course, but he knows where I live. He could kill me in my sleep. Maybe it's time to start locking my windows and doors.

* * *

 

"You say anything, to anyone, I'll kill you," Stan tells me conversationally as he walks me to my car. I've been not so kindly thrown out of the bar for the night. Not by Craig, the owner of said bar and sympathetic ear-lender I came to see, but by Stan, who is apparently Craig's lover.

Somehow, I'm not as surprised as I should be.

"Even Kenny?" I ask, trying to sound non-threatening. I've heard that if you use soothing tones with rabid wild animals, they're less likely to bit you.

"Don't you dare tell fucking Kenny!" Stan shouts, suddenly taking hold of my shoulders so hard that I swear his finger prints are going to be ingrained in my skin.

"Okay," I blink, nonplussed. I'm trying really hard here to look like I don't think Stan's gone psycho. Treat the crazy person like they're normal…it's much like the rabid wild animals theory.

He's breathing hard. I can smell liquor on his breath. Looks like he and Craig pre-gamed before doing the nasty. I know I would certainly have to before I got within a ten foot distance of Craig's dick. It's been fucking everywhere, and anything that's been inside ninety five percent of the female population of South Park needs to stay far, far away from me. I cringe, wondering how Stan could have let him…Stan, who only weeks prior I witnessed giving it to some random girl.

"I'm not gay."

"Dude," I blink again, not really knowing what to say to this. I have no idea what to say to Stan anymore. He obviously went mad in my absence, and this new and depraved Stan isn't something I have the slightest clue how to deal with. I mean, if it was any of my friends from college, guys I hadn't known for so very long, I'd be cool with it. Hell, how other dudes carry on their sex life is their business. But this is Stan. He can't possibly be happy, cheating with random girls, cheating with Craig, and then cuddling with Wendy. How is he having this much sex anyway? Is he using little blue pills, or is he really just that much of a horn dog?

I said before I knew who Stan was, even if he'd changed. Now I'm thinking I don't really know anything at all.

"I'm not," Stan insists, "I'm fucking not, Kyle, so don't even look at me like that!"

"…okay," I frown, toeing lightly at the snow slicked pavement we're standing on, "Could you let go of me, please?"

He does. I know I'm just going to get myself into trouble, but I can't help asking, "Why Craig? I thought…in high school you two couldn't stand each other."

Stan's staring at me with those irritatingly deep eyes of his, guard fully up, debating whether to answer. I'm half-shocked when he does, "We can't. It's…a convenience thing."

"How can getting fucked up the ass be convenient?"

Ooh, that wasn't the best thing to say. He turns red with rage, and goes predictably mute. I'm really good at ruining our conversations, aren't I? Wordlessly, he leads me the rest of the way to mom's car. He even watches while I get in and turn the ignition. I'm not sure whether he's guarding me from all the murderers and rapists in Denver, or if he's watching to see if I'm going to pull out my cell and spill his gossip to everyone I know.

Just to be spiteful, I consider doing the latter.

* * *

 

I'll admit it. I caved. I managed to go a week and a half avoiding Kenny, and it was quite possibly the most boring period of time I've spent in South Park since finding him again. Sadly, to spend the day with him today, I have to go to Cartman's house.

Here's the thing. I don't honestly believe Cartman has feelings for me. Most likely, he kissed me because he was trying to get a rise out of me. I'm going to ignore the fact that he was pretty passionate about it. Liquor has that affect on people. It was almost enough to make me consider dropping drinking altogether, but that idea was absolutely abhorrent to me. I sound like a closet alcoholic, but really, for twenty three year old guys, alcohol is pretty much akin to oxygen.

Anyway, the point is I don't like Cartman in that way. Obviously, I only like girls. Breasts and legs and skinny little waists and cherry flavored Chap Stick…The thing is that I liked kissing him. Still, it would take Satan himself to drag that admission out of me. Even though I don't want to hurt the big guy's feelings or anything, I'm only agreeing to come over if he backs off. To my relief, when he shows me in at the door, his eyes don't even flicker in recognition that there might be the possibility of anything from me. I wonder now if he even remembers it.

We decide to play Gamesphere. Cartman has the newest model and hell if I don't love video games. I have to wait until Cartman departs into the kitchen for snacks before I can get to my real reason for wanting to see Kenny. Dropping my controller in my lap, I turn to the blonde and ask, "What's going on with Stan?"

Kenny sighs, "Are we on this again?"

"You don't really seem at all concerned about him. Some friend."

The boy's face darkens, "Hey, I've been putting up with this for four years. You disappeared, and now that you're back you're pussing out over it in just two months? Jesus, Kyle."

He really knows how to hit a guy where it hurts, doesn't he?

"Look, I just…he won't talk to me. He's acting like a complete dick, and I'm really worried."

"Don't be," Kenny mutters, "The cheating thing is whatever. I feel bad for Wendy, but what can I do? And the rest…Kyle, he's only being a dick to you."

Point for Kenny. Even though all my experiences with Stan since returning have been negative, apparently I'm the only one who's getting to see the angrier side of Stan Marsh. Even my mother's been asking why the little angel and I haven't reconciled. Gag, puke. I considered telling her that he had contracted leprosy from Craig's cock and thus wouldn't come to play any time soon, but then I remembered that Stan might really sneak in my house and murder me. If my mother didn't beat me into a pulp for defiling her house with those words.

"I know," I'm so frustrated I can't even believe it, "I just want to understand…"

"Why are you so invested in this? I know you want your best friend back, but that's probably not going to happen," Kenny bites his lip, and I realize he's still completely focused on whooping my ass at the video game that I've stopped playing. His character on screen is repeatedly kneeing my character in the balls, who just sits there and takes it.

"Seriously Kenny," I pick up the controller and surprise his kung fu master by swiping back, "Just help me out. I don't know why I want to know, I just do."

His hand lands on my knee, and I abruptly recall why I've been evading my friend for the past week or so, "You always were curious."

"Erm- yeah," I sputter. He sees how uncomfortable I am, and winks almost seductively before turning back to the game. Fuck. I can't tell whether he's teasing or whether he's trying to subtly charm his way into my pants. That's how Kenny always rolled with the girls, when he could. He would make them think he was harmless, and then one day they'd find themselves thoroughly ravished and regretting that they'd ever looked past his poor, dirty exterior. He can't be doing the same thing to me. He can't.

I see him lick his lips. He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Double fuck.

"My best guess," he says, concentrating now on trying to behead my martial artist, "Is that Stan doesn't even have an idea what he's doing. I think he just thinks this is what love's all about."

"How is that even possible? Love's not cheating on your girl…" I stop myself from saying more, not wanting to sound like a total pansy.

"If you think about it, Stan's always had problems with his parents. Remember the time they got divorced and then back together in like the space of a week? Or the time his mom thought he was killing people?"

"Yeah, but all our parents have issues," I'm not really getting what this has to do with the conversation.

"No really. Your mom might be a raging activist bitch, but she's pretty stable in that. I don't think she's ever stopped being a raging activist bitch. Cartman's mom is always going to be a whore. And my mom and dad might be drunks, but at least they're consistent. Stan's parents are really the only ones who can never seem to figure out how much they love their kids, or each other, unless there's a crisis."

"I never really thought about that."

Kenny grinned, "I'm insightful that way. I figure that somewhere along the line, Stan's worldview got totally strangled by them, and now he thinks that what he's doing is normal. It's probably true, I mean Randy and Sharon both had their share of affairs."

It does make a little sense, but not enough that it actually explains anything. I mean okay, Stan's parents were always screwy with the relationship thing. Even if that did hit him hard, which he never gave any indication of, he's too damned smart to let that influence how he lives his life. If anything, I think watching his parents' relationship constantly crash and burn would make him want to live a better life with Wendy, or whoever he chooses to settle down with eventually.

"Dude, this is bitchin," bright blue eyes turn on me in triumph as Kenny's character plunges a broadsword into my gut. I'm so, so dead.

We play video games for hours until boredom finally descends upon us. I'm half heartedly fiddling with my controller while Cartman 'pounds my ass'. Those words keep making me think about Stan and Craig. I still can't believe it. I even have trouble picturing it. The two guys share the same dark hair, the same lanky, athletic build, and even have slightly similar facial features. The only difference is the eyes and Craig's devil-may-care attitude. The two of them together has to be weird. It must be like fucking each other's twin. Sick.

"You wanna see something funny?" Kenny asks, breaking me out of my reverie. I shrug. Sure, why not? Fatboy's giving me the heebie jeebies anyway. I thought he was okay, that he'd forgotten even. Then I noticed the way he was discretely sizing me up. There's no way he doesn't remember. I could use a distracting laugh.

I'm sort of surprised when the blond gets up, tells me to stay put, and disappears into the kitchen. He returns minutes later, and we continue killing helpless CGI characters on the Gamesphere. I guess Kenny didn't really have anything to show me.

Half an hour passes.

Then the doorbell rings.

Grumbling and moaning, Cartman opens the door and immediately stiffens, "Not again."

He steps back and I can see the familiar blue uniform that usually inspires fear in my heart, but on this particular man does nothing less than give me a chuckle.

"Hi Officer Barbrady," Kenny and I chorus from the couch.

"Hi boys," the goofy man replies, then tries to resume some air of authority, "Eric Cartman, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you for the death of Kenneth McCormick."

I can't help it. I burst out laughing. Oh, this is funny. Cartman's looking back and forth between Barbrady and Kenny, obviously trying to decide who to yell at first.

"Aye! I didn't kill him," Cartman splutters, red with rage, "He's right there!"

Kenny smiles cheekily, but doesn't say anything in the fat guy's defense. Ha. Serves him right. Kenny leans into me, smile still stretched from ear to ear, and whispers conspiratorially, "We'll let him stay the night and then drop the charges. I do this all the time."

Now Cartman's yelling, "Fuck, Barbrady! Why don't you ever believe me? I fucking work for the police department in Denver! I didn't kill Po'boy! Goddamnit!"

Priceless, dude. Priceless.

* * *

 

A few days later, Mom decides to inflict new and interesting tortures upon me. She sends me out grocery shopping. I can't even get away with going to Quickie Check, because her list includes things like arugula and oregano. I don't even know what we need oregano for. It's not like she's ever going to take mercy on us all and cook a pizza.

So I'm aisle three, looking for Tampax, which is quite possibly the most mortifying moment of my life. I discover the box in question and chuck it in the cart, racing down the aisle so quickly that I t-bone my cart directly into another, tipping it on its side.

"Why I never!" the owner shrieks.

The contents of cart spill across the floor, accompanied by the distinct crunch of glass. Shit.

I look up to apologize to the owner of the cart, who's giving me a scathing look.

"You young brats never watch where you're fucking going," the person begins to rant, "You better believe that I'm not catching the blame for this."

He starts yelling for help, his voice so shrill that I think he's had practice at it. He probably has. It's Mr. Garrison, after all.

To my surprise, the only form of help he finds is an all too familiar face.

"Kyle! Mr. Garrison!" Wendy rushes to our side, immediately righting Mr. Garrison's cart and picking through what is salvageable. I stare dumbly. I should probably help, but I'm sort of immobile under my old elementary school teacher's scary gaze. He isn't helping her either.

"Kyle Broflovski," the old man finally concludes, "I remember you. Your mother is that fat old skank who periodically storms city hall. And you're the little jerk that used to mouth off in my class."

"Yeah," I reply, completely unabashedly. I don't even feel so bad about tipping over his cart.

"You really should watch yourself. If you don't look where you're going you might just find a giant fat penis shoved up your ass, and then where will you be?"

Uh, no. There will never be a dick up in my grill. I tell him so. Before we can get into a cute little spat, Wendy straightens, everything back in order except for the guts of a jar of dill pickles lying splattered across the floor.

"Kyle, it's so nice to see you. You haven't dropped by the apartment in ages since you've come back," she tells me breathlessly, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving a little trail of shining pickle juice.

"Stan's not so fond of me right now," I tell her.

"Lover's spat?" Mr. Garrison interjects, "And how does that cuntbag of a mother feel about your homosexuality?"

I'm about to tell him to fuck off, but Wendy is shifting uncomfortably, and I know I'll probably get yelled at by her later for it. She's the type that's all about respecting elders, and he's got to be sixty by now. Mr. Garrison gives me a shrewd look. He may have been a shitty teacher, and he may have been incredibly stupid, but I always got the sense he could be dangerous if given a chance.

"Well, gee, thanks for the concern Herbert," I say smugly, "I'll let her know you'd like to join the next gay rights cause."

He flips me off and mutters something about upstart little brats. Whatever. I'm practically singing with joy when he leaves. That man has always and will always be a prick, and a perverted deviant prick at that. I was always surprised that his next phase after gay, female, and lesbian wasn't touching small children. He has the look of a pedophile, at any rate.

Wendy's smiling at me now, "He's a freak. Don't worry about it."

I guess she's not so into elderly rights after all. She surprises me more when she asks if I'd like to go have lunch. I decide it would be nice. I abandon my cart, deciding I can go grocery shopping later. Or maybe I can just tell mom the store burned down, and she can go out and buy her own freaking tampons.

We go to a local burger joint, which is more or less better than all those chain restaurants I usually frequent. Wendy's a sweet girl. She even pays for me after I order, although all my manly testosterone protests it.

She slides into the booth across from me with her double cheeseburger and laugh, "I hardly ever eat these things. But sometimes I just crave red meat."

I like her smile. She's got that pearly white model smile that you see in commercials, just like Stan.

We spend over an hour reminiscing about high school and our old friends. I thought she'd asked me out to talk about her boyfriend, but to my surprise, she leaves the subject alone. And it's actually really great not having to think about him for once. Ever since I got back, I've been feeling like this giant ball of angst, all over a guy who has essentially been a total dickweed and couldn't seem to care less about it. Spending time with Wendy is kind of making me feel better about myself. I feel like a man, one that talks to girls and has an exciting future in store. She grills me about when I'm going to submit my application for the community college, and mentions all the classes she took over at Colorado U before transferring here. Even though she's always been kind of a bitch, Wendy was also the smartest person around before she left. I hated her for it, of course.

Now it's just nice.

When we're wrapping up with lunch, Wendy goes to throw our trays out, and by chance I catch a glimpse outside. There, on the backdrop of the fog gray sky and the pastel cutout buildings, dressed in a coat the same deep cobalt color as his eyes, is Stan.

Oh, and it looks like he really is going to murder me.


	9. You Provide The Lighter Fluid, The Fuel, My Fire

I tell Wendy to go on ahead. She obviously hasn't noticed her irate boyfriend outside. After a moment's hesitation she does leave; she has to shower, make Staney-poo's dinner, and get ready for work. I watch her retreating back, clothed in a cloying shade of fuchsia. Then I decide to attempt my own exit.

Like everything else in my life, it doesn't work. Stan scowls at me, his hand blocking my way at the door, "What the hell did you tell her?"

"What?"

"Don't fuck with me Kyle. I saw you with Wendy. What did you fucking tell her?"

"You're getting ridiculous, shithead. I didn't tell her anything," I emphasize the anything, "We ran into each other at the supermarket, and decided to catch up."

"What could you possibly have to say to my girlfriend?"

"Maybe, hi, how are you, what have you been doing since I last saw you?" I reply sarcastically, "It's not like she's a complete stranger, Stan."

"That's bullshit. You were talking to her about me."

"Okay, Marsh. Everything in the world does not revolve around your massive head," which is a total lie with the way my train of thought has been permanently on him in the past two months, but he doesn't have to know that.

Stan's other hand slams into the restaurant wall beside my ear, "Tell me the truth."

I deflate. This is getting boring. The old Stan would have trusted me. The old Stan wouldn't be fucking random bitches at parties or sharing quickies with Craig Tucker.

Flatly, I tell him, "You know what? Why don't you just ask Wendy? I'm sick of this."

"Sick of what?" Stan asks, startled. His anger is still there, raging behind his eyes, but I've obviously disconcerted him. He expected me to yell, and instead I did nothing.

"Of you," I clarify, "I felt like shit for what I did to you. When you said that everything was okay, I was ecstatic. But you're acting paranoid. I can forgive you being a douchebag to Wendy, because that's none of my business, but Stan, I was your best friend for eighteen years. Even if we haven't talked for however long, it's not like I can just break that kind of trust. I know I haven't acted much like a friend, and I know I have a lot to make up for. But you do too. Not talking to each other was a two way street. But either way, I doubt you went and blabbed all the secrets you knew about me all over South Park."

Here I check, just in case he had and his emotions betray him. Nothing. He's staring at me blankly.

"So you shouldn't expect that I would do that either."

His temper cools so quickly that it's like I dumped him in a bucket of ice.

"Being back here…" he says slowly, "…it's been rough?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His eyes clench closed as he breathes, "I made it worse, didn't I?"

I nod again.

"Shit," Stan curses softly, "I didn't mean…things have been…I don't know."

I don't know what Stan's trying to say, but I understand the sentiment.

"We shouldn't try to be friends if it's going to be forced," I say finally. He's looking at me in shock, blue eyes wide.

Clearly, he announces, "That's not what I want."

I know this is completely cliché. I say it anyway, "You can't always get what you want, Stan."

"Look," Stan's arms are still blocking me from running away. He has all the muscle of a high school jock, and even though I could probably break his hold, I wait, "I've been an asshole."

"Pretty much."

"I…I guess I was more upset about your lack of communication than I let on. I mean…you know what this place is like. Finding a best friend in South Park is like looking for a needle in a haystack. We've always been special, Kyle."

Faggy, but true.

"So…when all these good things started happening to me…finding Wendy again, my job, everything, I just didn't know how to deal. I mean…with Wendy especially. You know that none of us have ever had good role models in love. I mean, even my parents…"

He trails off, but I'm thinking of what Kenny had said. I guess it's hard to believe in love when things end so easily and then begin again the same way.

"You know that I've always had trouble…with girls, I mean. With not puking on them," he scratches the back of his head in this cute, nervous way, "Wendy's amazing. I mean, she's funny and smart, and completely sassy. Any guy would be lucky to have her, but I…I just can't fucking figure out if I'm actually in love with her. I think I am. Or I thought I was. The first time I…you know, I was drunk and I wasn't thinking. We'd only been dating like a month at that point. The second time was to test a theory."

"What theory?" I ask softly, kind of disgusted by what he's saying, but understanding to a degree.

"Having sex with a complete stranger was the same as having sex with Wendy," Stan's eyes flicker with hurt, "I felt like a complete pig, but it was exactly the same. I got off, and the only difference with Wendy was that I sort of wanted to cuddle after. But only sort of. Damnit, Kye, I wanted to ask somebody what was wrong with me. Anybody. You weren't there, and Kenny had just gotten his new job and come out. It was hard to talk to him when he was looking at the world in a whole new way. Hell, I would've even settled for talking to Cartman, but he was in lock up."

The raven haired boy groaned in frustration. I don't think he'd gotten a chance to ever discuss it until now. Jesus. How long had he been this way with no one to confide in? Stan continued, "Everyone abandoned me. Including you. And what felt 'right' with Wendy felt 'right' with everyone else. It became addicting after awhile. I couldn't stop. I hooked up with Craig somewhere along the way. At first to talk, although we never actually talked about my life, just his, and then…well, he's head over heels for Token. The asshole fled to California the minute he found out, and hasn't picked up any of Craig's calls since. So if everyone I love can leave, and if someone like Craig, who is so hopelessly devoted to one guy gets nothing in return…I just started thinking that maybe…"

I feel my stomach clench.

I guess it's hard to believe in friendship when things end so easily and begin again the same way as well. It's not like friendship has anything to do with love though.

I'm a fucking artard.

Friendship has everything to do with love. There was a point in my life where I would have bled for Stan if he asked. Great.

I made Stan stop believing in love.

No, that can't be true. He has Wendy. I mean, they look like they're carrying on a functioning relationship. If you ignore the fact that Stan cheats on her with anything that has legs.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Kenny said that he hadn't really kept in touch; he would hang out, but only every so often. Calls from him became rarer every day. It was part of why Kenny was always so reluctant to help me. He didn't want to fuck up his own dwindling relationship with Stan. From what I can tell, the dark haired boy doesn't have any steady friends. His parents are airheads. I'd left before he found Wendy. He hadn't taken up with Craig and the girls until after her. It was obvious what he was doing, to Kenny and Wendy. He was trying to make them leave him on his own terms, before they could do it on their own.

"…maybe love doesn't exist," Stan breathes finally.

I wonder how long Stan spent completely and utterly alone.

Okay, I need to stop this immediately. The world does not revolve around Kyle Broflovski, no matter how hard my mother always tried to tell me that the very sun would rotate about Ike and I if we so desired. My mom spoils us, don't ask. Anyway, the world is spinning, and I'm just a passenger, and as a passenger I don't have the ability to just make someone else's life implode.

Do I?

Because Stan Marsh's words are making my heart squeeze painfully, and I'm thinking that if my world can rotate around him the way it did for those eighteen years before college, the way it has ever since I got back and couldn't keep my mind off his problems, then maybe his world could have been centered on me. Maybe my rejection brought out the abandonment issues that have just been waiting for an impetus.

"Say something, Kyle."

"I…uh…dude," I splutter articulately. He's shaking his head sadly in my direction, thinking I don't understand.

Hastily I manage, "So you've never managed to be with anyone…erm, in bed I mean, that made you feel special?"

"I guess not," he's frustrated, "Wendy is so great. She's nice, and she makes me feel like a king when we're doing anything other than kissing and fucking. But when we do that stuff…there's no spark."

"Is there a spark with Craig?"

A distorted laugh breaks from his lips, "No."

"So why don't you just break it off with Wendy? Craig too," I add, although I don't think it would take much to get him and Craig to dissolve their little relationship.

"Then I'll be alone," he says stubbornly. I sigh. Abandonment issues or not, Stan's being a bit of a pussy. It shouldn't really surprise me. I remember Raven.

"Stan, did you ever think that maybe love does exist, you're just looking for it to be…bigger, somehow? Like a fairytale?"

He always was a hopeless romantic. That was probably why all his dreams were ending up shot.

"So? Why can't love be like a fairytale? Why can't there be fireworks and all that shit?" I give him a 'you-know-how-gay-you-sound-right-now' look, but he ignores it and continues, "I shouldn't have to lower my expectations because nothing's working for me yet."

"Yet," I smirk a little, "So that means you haven't completely given up. It's not just an addiction. You're out there looking for something."

He reddens, and for the first time I think maybe he's leaving something very specific out of this conversation. I think about it. What has he said that doesn't add up?

"That's why you only have sex with each girl once," I murmur, then pause, "Right?"

He nods, shakily. I'm on to something. Wait.

"But Stan, how long has this thing with Craig been going on?"

"That's not part of the addiction thing," he rushes to say, "It's more like a comfort thing. For Craig. Because he misses Token."

Bingo. It's definitely been going on for quite a while. I'd thought so, but it hadn't really hit my moronic mind at that point. So what's different about Craig than all the other girls? Why would he keep it up with him, and only him, when Wendy was supposedly the one he loved? I think of Stan's protests of "I'm not gay" the day prior.

He so is. God, sometimes I hate being observant. Stan, the hopeless romantic, the boy who believes in magic and innocence, can't seem to process the fact that he's gay. Gay, and losing faith in love.

If he hasn't figured it out himself, I'm certainly not telling. In fact, I'm going to do my best to forget now. The last thing I need my mind playing tricks on me and making me think he likes me too. I'm still not even sure about the Kenny and Cartman gay-for-me thing. Kenny's got to be teasing. Cartman's got to be fucking with me. Ugh! Why am I even thinking about this?

Plus there's always the option that I've gone completely bonkers and Stan is in fact still a part of the heterosexual home team and apparently I'm just seeing gay men in the carpet. There is that.

I take hold of Stan's elbow, "You know how you can make it up to me?"

"How?" he asks, his eyes gleeful. I really have missed him. And I guess this means he actually forgives me for having a chat with his lover. Hmm.

"Let's spend the day together."

"Sounds good," my friend laughs, "That's all?"

That's all for now.

But…I grin, "You're saying that a date with me isn't a big deal?"

He squeaks out, "A date?"

"Oh yeah, baby."

He catches on. It took a minute. "You're such a bastard."

"What? You don't want to go on a date with me?" I wheedle, grinning all the while.

Stan squints, his eyes narrowed to slits against the too bright sun, but he's still smiling, "That doesn't sparkle with me, dude."

I can't help it. I burst out laughing, "Doesn't-" insert laugh "sparkle?" insert great hacking cough of a laugh.

He scowls. I'm not looking at him, and I doubt he can see me since his eyes have gone all tilted and Asian, but I can feel the heat of his expression. Plus, y'know, I'd be mock-scowling if my friend was hysterically laughing over something I said. Even if I'd said something really gay like that, which I wouldn't.

"Shut up."

"No, no, really," I insist through chuckles, "It doesn't sparkle with you?"

"Wendy-" he begins to protest, but I really don't care. I'm just amused that he used those words.

"Uh hunh."

"List committee," he continues to try to interject words, but it's really hard when I'm laughing so hard that tears are forming in my eyes.

* * *

 

We spend the day together. And the one after that. And then the day two days after that. In fact, the next few weeks find me seeing a whole lot of Stan Marsh. Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way. All our inside jokes have been revived. All our old hangouts are suddenly being re-frequented. In fact, Kenny's gotten to complaining because he sees less of me now that Stan and I have rekindled our friendship. I've heard Wendy's giving Stan quite the earful about it too, but I imagine that she does it with a sort of exasperated smile. She's not the type of girl to hold grudges against friends. This is funny, because she's the kind of girl to hold grudges over everything else.

Every once in a while we have conversations that border on awkward, but I always manage to diffuse them before anything gets out of hand. Like this one time, we were on the couch in his apartment and he turned to me.

"I heard you've spent a lot of time with Kenny. He's your new best friend," he's joking, but his eyes and his voice are both dull. I feel kind of…something.

"Stan, you're my best friend," I say, before I can even think about it, "You always have been, and you always will be. Even if we were to go the rest of our lives without talking."

Great, now I sound like a crappy, sentimental song. But…it's true. I fucking missed him like crazy. I told him so before. And it's not like I have any luck making other best friends, as Kenny so helpfully pointed out.

Stan half smiles, "Yeah, four and half years isn't that long, is it. I still know all about you."

"Yup."

"Like that you snore while you're sleeping."

"I do not!" I protest, and we launch into a familiar old argument.

So anyway, things sort of get good, for a little while.

Then the incident happens.

"I want to go to the party," I whine in Stan's ear for the umpteenth time, hoping that if I reach a loud enough pitch he might just give in.

"Dude," he laughs, not getting annoyed like I'd hoped, "If I already told Wendy no, what makes you think I'm going to give in when you ask?"

"Because you loooooooooooooooove me," I sing song back.

He rolls his eyes, "But you don't give me sex."

"Well, you've never asked."

Stan reddens, "Sick, dude."

"Oh, so sleeping with Craig is okay, but not with me? I'll have you know I am a fine specimen of a man."

"Yeah, if scrawny Jewish guys are your type. Have your balls even dropped yet?" he teases. I elbow him in the stomach, but he just keeps laughing. I'm not particularly worried about what Stan's going to think about our mock-flirting. I'd had so much practice doing it with Kenny that I don't think I remembered how I was supposed to talk to a heterosexual guy, and Stan was at the very least bisexual, so whatever. I wasn't worried about him liking me. That would be incest, and despite what they say, incest is totally not best.

"Please, Stan? Pretty pretty please?" I plead, "Let's go to the party. It will be fun!"

The party in question is this pseudo-high school reunion that's not actually sanctioned by the school. Someone had the idea to break into the school near midnight with a few well-placed bribes to the janitors and the night guards, and set up a bar and a DJ, and fuck if I wasn't going to be there to see it. Standing up to authority was in my blood, although I'm pretty sure this wasn't what my mom meant when she told me, "In life you have to make your own rules, Bubhie."

Still, an illegal party was totally on my to-do list. Ever since the thrill of under-age drinking no longer applied to me, I'd had to find my kicks somewhere else. This sounded killer.

Stan was so not into it. Wendy and I had both been nagging him for ages, even though Wendy hadn't even technically been in our graduating class. The more the merrier, right?

"You're making the queerest face right now," he tells me. I let the insult to my puppy dog pout roll, mostly because I know if I get mad I won't win. I have to win. I have to go to that party. Kenny can't make it, because he's got to work an all-nighter, and supposedly Cartman chose this night to give soup to the homeless or some crock that I don't entirely buy. Everyone else seems to believe his born-again homo bull, but I find I'm still skeptical. He definitely got a boner trying to ravish me against _Mein Kampf_ , even if he hasn't made a move since. There's something lurking behind those chocolate eyes, but I refuse to make it my business to find out what. That sicko probably eats all the soup he's supposed to be handing out.

"Fine," Stan sighs.

"Really?" I demand happily.

He grins, "Really."

"Yay!" I sound so not-masculine right now, but whatever. It's not like I'm giggling.

* * *

 

I'm not nearly so into it when we end up late to the party. Mostly because Wendy neglected to tell us that she changed her mind and couldn't come, and then my mom's car is a piece of crap and decides to junk out on me, again. About a mile from the school, we end up walking. I don't know if you've ever been to South Park, but a mile of our town pretty much consists of cow fields and fucking trees. So we're making our way towards the high school, my party shoes smudged with I-don't-even-want-to-know-but-Stan-insists-is-cow-patty, when we reach the fence bordering Old Mister Williams's property. Like most ranch owners, he's got a big ass fence surrounding his pastures, ensuring that cows don't wander out and get hit by trucks, or more probably that punk-ass kids like the high-school-aged-me don't decide cow tipping is an acceptable form of amusement. Anyway, I hop the fence with relative ease, careful not to rip my designer jeans. Hell, they're Armani, and it's not like my mom's willing to dish out two hundred for a pair every day. I then proceed to examine the sign post that I'd previously ignored, which reads 'No trespassing. Violators will be shot on sight."

Stan has more trouble.

"Dude. That's fucking twisted," Stan mutters, catching sight of the sign. He follows me up and over the fence, a little more quickly than I did. He probably doesn't want to be shot.

I hear a sudden cry, and turn back to see the dark haired boy trying to get his shoelaces unwound from the wire at the top of the fence. It was funny watching him flail about with his foot entrapped, leg stretched impossibly like some ballerina performing an awkward modern dance. The composure he seems to have perfected has vanished in moments, his arms flapping and grasping air. I guess it would hurt if he falls. He might even twist his ankle. But the fence is only waist height, and this situation is too priceless to just go help him out of it, even if he is crying out my name in these cute little squeaks.

"Kyle! Kyle! Kyle, help!"

I finally do, after I've gotten my fix of watching him nearly fall at least three times. I might be a sadist.

We finally reach the party, which has swung into high gear. Bud the Janitor lets us in, and we tip him a few bucks just in case he's thinking about reporting us despite the bribe. Maybe if he thinks money will keep coming in, he'll leave things be.

It takes place in the old gym, just like any high school dance, but our DJ is playing songs that would make my old teachers blush, and I'm fairly sure I never saw a few games of flip cup and beer pong going on beneath the basketball hoop before. There's a full bar set up, courtesy of Craig, who is too busy to give us more than a smile and a drink. His gaze doesn't linger on Stan or anything when he does it either. I guess he really is in love with Token, who I notice is conspicuously absent.

So we hang out for a while, running into old schoolmates I barely remember. I dance with a pretty brunette girl, and Stan's dragged onto the floor by a girl who used to have this giant crush on him. We both escape from their grasps pretty quickly.

Then it begins.

I'm approached by a kid who I don't quite recognize.

"Kyle, hey."

"Uh, hey…"

He wears a baggy hooded sweatshirt lined with watermark emblems, dark shades, and looks eerily familiar. Flinging his hands out in some sort of weird finger gestures, he also succeeds in showing off the rather large golden rings he sports on both hands.

It's not until a pretty girl with bleach blonde hair and too-large boobs runs at me with a flying tackle-hug and the boy emits a, "Well, gosh," that I realize who he is.

"Like my bling-bling?" Butter grins, as I try to disentangle myself from the girl, "Bebe pays for all my ice."

Gee, that's nice. Do I get paid for having Bebe cling to me screaming, "Kylie! Kylie! I's SO good to see you, Kylie! I's that ass the same?"

She paws my ass, but since she's pretty much straddling me, she can't really get to it.

"I'm SO drunk, Kylie," she giggles a tee-hee type of giggle. Fabulous. Butters finally takes pity on me and helps Bebe climb to her feet. I then watch disgustedly as Bebe croons and fawns all over Butters. Apparently Paris Hilton wasn't the only one who wasn't immune to his…erm, charm.

I vaguely recall something about her getting a record deal, and ask Butters about it, who then tries to convince me that she's the Next Big Thing, like Britney, but not as slutty. Bebe emphasizes that statement by plunging her hand deep into Butter's baggy jeans. The blonde boy blushes and sort of shrugs like, 'what-can-you-do?'

When Bebe finally grows bored of fondling Butters, which happens about one point six seconds later, she burps loudly and says, "Oops! I need another drink. I'll be right back pookie."

Then she flounces away.

I turn to Butters, "Dude. You and Bebe, hunh? Never saw that coming."

"She's a nice girl," Butters says defensively, "She can just be a little absent minded when she's drunk. But her producers say she's going to go all the way."

"Good for her," I say honestly. I never had a problem with Bebe, aside from the occasional groping, and I think Butters sort of always needed someone to need him. I'm sure they treat each other great.

That's what it happens. Stan stumbles over to me, three sheets to the wind and it's not even midnight yet, and says, "Dude! Thanks for convincing me to come to this party! I've had a great time!"

"Stan!" Butters exclaims, delighted.

"Hey, man!" Stan exclaims right back, beaming at the smaller boy.

Butters is smiling. He opens his mouth. And he says, "Stan, it's great to see you! So I guess you an' Kyle are dating, finally."

Stan sobers up so quickly that I swear the process was visible.

"We're not dating, Butters," I insert, trying to sound soothing. I basically felt my friend stiffen, since he threw his arm around me and all, and it's sort of obvious that he's now glaring daggers at the little ghetto-fied blonde.

"You're not?" Butters muses, obviously confused.

I don't get it. Okay, so Stan's arm is around me, and we did come to the dance together, but other than that in what way do we look like a couple?

And what the hell does finally mean?

"I would never date Kyle," Stan tells Butters in a low growl, which I find rather insulting. What's wrong with me?

"Yeah," I say, falsely cheerful, "What the heck, Butters?"

"Sorry fellows," Butters scratches his head all innocent like, "I just…you know…oh, look Bebe's throwing up in the punch bowl. Bye!"

Spinning towards my friend I bat my eyes, "So is it really cause I'm a scrawny Jewish boy?"

"What?" Stan's blue eyes widen.

"You won't date me because I'm a scrawny Jewish boy?" I prod again.

"Shut the fuck up," Stan cocks an eyebrow, and even though I can see he's trying to let the joke roll off of him, I can also tell he's shaken. He's my best friend, after all.

It was after this that things changed.


	10. You Felt Abandoned By Me

Alright. I don't know how to say this, so I'm going to be blunt. I have no fucking clue what's going on. Stan and I were getting on great. Fabulous, dare I say. Then we go to that damned class reunion thing and suddenly, he's avoiding me. While not exactly at my throat, which is still a refreshing change from mere weeks past, he's definitely screening his calls and making sure he doesn't visit the spots I tend to haunt.

I haven't seen him in a week. You would think I'd be completely cool with that, I mean, I'm not a fag. I don't need Stan in my life. All the time. Every second. Right? I've been wasting time over at Kenny's. We've really bonded over reruns of Pimp My Ride and six packs of beer. Occasionally he gives me a shifty eye, but I ignore that, and we do just fine. I'm quite convinced it's all in my head. And I'm completely okay with Stan not being there.

So, the fact that I'm going to see him tonight shouldn't get me this excited.

It does. I'm a pathetic mess. Right now I'm practically quaking in my shoes, which are those moderately expensive patent leather ones I wear a-job-hunting. Speaking of jobs, I finally, finally got an offer from a relatively decent sounding place. It's actually more of a paid internship, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, right? My mom's ecstatic. I start the Monday after next. I don't even mind that I'm going to have to start driving out to Denver every day, because the hellish traffic doesn't even compare to spending all day at home with my mom.

Anyway, this thing we're doing is kind of a celebration. A celebration at Craig's bar, in fact. I'm not exactly sure what we're celebrating, other than my newfound job, but any excuse to drink, right? I'm wearing my work hunting clothes, because frankly they're the only nice things I have that still fit. I think I grew another inch during college, which my father tells me shouldn't be possible but my mother attributes to good genes. Good. Yeah. She doesn't have to try being the tall, gangly Jewish kid.

I don't even want to tell Cartman that my internship is at an accounting firm. I can just see the jokes rolling my way.

The point is, I'm excited, dressed to the tee, and practically bouncing up and down on the bar stool. Craig's half watching me and half watching some baseball game. I think it's the Angels versus…I don't really know. It's spring training still, so I don't really care. It's not like the game counts for anything. Still, Craig's dark eyes are trained on the TV, intensely watching the screen for something…I let myself imagine that maybe he's searching for a glimpse of Token, who always was a baseball fan. Didn't Stan say he lived in California? Although I thought he mentioned the San Francisco area…Then again, I might just be romanticizing the situation. I don't even know for sure that Craig's in love with Token. I have no reason to doubt Stan, but the bastard bar owner might have lied to him to get in his pants. Craig's shifty that way.

They finally walk in the door. I bound to my feet, eager to greet them.

Stan's all dressed up. Dressed up meaning he's donned this red trucker hat that I'm nearly certain he must have stolen from Kenny, and a brown and yellow plaid shirt. All he needs is a cigarette and a beer and he'd be the spitting image of every other redneck in our hometown. The annoying part is it looks good on him. Really good.

Meanwhile Kenny's version of dressed up consists of ripped jeans and a white wife beater with unrecognizable stains, and Cartman's wearing some cashmere sweater that just screams GAY.

Why, I feel overdressed.

"Kyle!" Kenny practically shrieks, throwing his arms around me so that I can get a whiff of whatever he's been pre-gaming with on the car ride over here. It smells faintly like rum.

"Hey, Ken," I reply easily, not bothering to disentangle myself from his arms. I know if I try, the mechanic will just latch tighter, so I oblige and return the hug. I see Craig look at Stan, and then pointedly glance back at the baseball game. Hunh. Strange.

"Kyle," Kenny whispers into my face in the confidential manner most drunks undertake when they're going to reveal something to you that you already know, "You haven't visited me in so long."

"I was at your house yesterday, Kenny," I tell him with good natured amusement.

The blonde brightens, "Oh yeah!"

"Time to let go now, Kenny," Stan begins to pull the poor guy off me, gentle with his ministrations, but to no avail. Kenny's decided I'm his new teddy bear.  
Stan gives me an inscrutable look, leaving me wondering what exactly is going on in that brain of his. Is he happy to see me? Does he hate that I'm here? Am I imagining all of this?

"Kyyyyyle," Kenny drawls, "Tell Stanley to let me go. He's been grumpy the entire ride up here, you know?"

I snicker. The look on Stan's face is priceless. He mumbles something about Kenny being a prick and then stomps over to the bar to get a drink from Craig, leaving me to fend for myself. Seeing this, Kenny untangles his arms from around my neck, only to press himself up against me.

"Whoa there, McCormick," I grin, pushing him away, "How much did you have?"

He sing songs back at me, "Not much."

I can't help but notice that his fingers are trailing up and down my bicep, tracing a line over the thin cloth of my dress shirt in a way that makes me shiver.

"Stop flirting," I warn, "Save it for someone's whose queer."

Kenny shrugs, straightening, cerulean eyes light, "Can't blame a guy for trying."

He winks at me, and I suspect he's considerably more sober than that little act he just put on revealed, and sigh.

"Let's get some drinks, buddy," he winds an arm around my shoulders again, this time companionably, and leads me over to the bar. Stan's already had two tequila shooters, and Craig's watching him down another with amusement. I glare at the bar owner, thinking that he shouldn't take so much joy from other people's oblivion drinking. When Stan slams down the shot glass on the slick wooden surface of the bar, Kenny stops him from ordering another by insinuating himself between the two dark haired men, demanding that Craig serve him up some of the best alcohol money can buy. Then with a cheeky grin he promptly informs Craig that drinks will be on the house, of course. Craig grunts something unintelligible and hurries away to fill some rocks glasses, possibly with poison.

"You really shouldn't piss off the bartender, Ken."

"Craig's a bastard," Kenny shrugs, "But he's not going to do anything. We're his friends, and he needs us. He doesn't really have anyone else."

Stan's studying one of the empty shot glasses in front of him, lips curled into a grimace, saying nothing at all.

Kenny ordered us up a round of whiskey sours, which I firmly insisted were girly drinks. He and Cartman downed them during my protest, then both cast me innocent looks that said, 'so'?

"Man up, Jew boy," Cartman commands, "Or haven't you got the balls to look gay?"

Kenny sneers behind the fat boy's head, his nose crinkling cutely as he tries to imitate Cartman's angry expression. He's mouthing obscenities behind the other boy's head, but Cartman continues trying to goad me into drinking the sweet whiskey, oblivious to the blonde's making a mockery of him.

"Fine," I give in, downing the drink in seconds flat. Craig informs me that it costs eight bucks, and I give him a look and deliver a line back about how he should give a discount to old friends.

"Free," Kenny tells the dark haired young man firmly, "You're giving us all the drinks free."

"I heard you the first time," Craig snarls back, "And if I give you everything free, you guys will drink everything in the damned bar."

"I'll control them," Stan speaks up, finally done staring at the beads of honey colored liquid left in the shot glass, "Scout's honor."

"You were a sucky scout, Marsh," Craig informs him.

"But I've still got honor," Stan replies deadpan, his gaze narrow. I wonder if they're having a fight. I wonder why that makes me happy.

Craig returns to watching the game, only paying any attention to us when we order drinks or that one time when Cartman decides to call him a rat-faced-cunt-bastard, during which he pours an entire bottle of decently priced whiskey over the time of his head. Cartman ends up sitting in a puddle and lapping the liquor off of his own face. Kenny tries to give him a kiss, but the fat boy just swats the blonde away.

"Kyle," Kenny sidles up to me, "How've you been?"

"Not bad," I say, although that's kind of a lie, "I got a job. Isn't that why we're celebrating?"

Kenny glances at me in surprise, and then whoops, "No. We're celebrating Stan, my man, being single again!"

"What?"

Shocked, I'm staring at Stan now, who just ducks his head and shrugs.

"You guys broke up?" I demand, coming up behind him since he refuses to move from that damned barstool. He looks up at me, expression unreadable.

"Wendy and I are on a break," he tells me hesitantly, ocean colored eyes dark.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he mutters. Then he turns away from me and goes back to whatever it was he'd been doing. I've narrowed it down to staring at the toxic green liquid in the Midori bottle or looking at Craig's butt. I'm really hoping it's the former.

Not that Stan looking at Craig's butt bothers me or anything. Except in the homophobic, ew gross, kind of way.

Kenny, who had delved deep into conversation with Cartman about something I overheard but refuse to think about because I'll have to gouge my eyes out should my mind even flicker to what was said (think anal beads, and then go dirtier), decided to start paying attention to us again.

"Still fighting?" her murmurs in my ear.

"We're not fighting," I rebuttal, but really I don't know what's going on with Stan and I, so that might be entirely inaccurate.

Smirking slightly, my blue-eyed buddy rolls his eyes. He takes hold of my arm, his grip tighter than it should be. I think mechanic-ing his way through life is giving Kenny unnecessary muscle. I preferred it when he was just a skinny little shit with a future that only promised unemployment, lung cancer, and alcoholism.

That's not true. I'm just being grouchy. Kenny pulls us both up by our elbows, promising Cartman and Craig we'll be right back after a teensy weensy cigarette break. Never mind that neither Stan nor I smoke, or the fact that Craig actually does. Smoking wasn't the only thing Kenny wanted to do.

"Guys," he places us a side by side next to the neon lights that brightly announce the presence of Craig's bar amongst row after row of mundane red brick buildings, examining us each with a critical look and a cigarette dangling between his fingers, "You're both moping."

Stan grunts something unintelligible in reply and snatches the pack hanging out of Kenny's pocket. He taps a cigarette out for himself, and then one for me. When he hands it to me, I take it, my fingers brushing against Stan in the first real contact I've had with him in the past week. Him trying to get Kenny off me before doesn't count.

"You don't smoke Kyle," Kenny glares at me disapprovingly, and then takes a place against the wall between me and my super-former-current-really-fucking-confused-right-now-best-friend. I notice he doesn't say a thing to Stan, who flicks the lighter open, the flame sparking to life in the darkness of the alley. He then inhales and exhales like a pro. I light up too, determined to show that I did learn something those days I smoked in college, kissing the tip of my cigarette up against Kenny's and breathing in deeply. I used to be a social smoker, but I never really liked doing it without alcohol involved. Mostly because of the promise I made to Stan. He must have forgotten, since he handed me the cigarette. I kind of count this as not breaking the promise. Also, like I said, I broke it once or twice in college, but only when I was drunk. Seeing as I'm halfway gone now, this counts. Anyway, he's not saying a word. It kind of hurts to think that he doesn't remember.

After I proceed to awe them both with my smoke rings, I tell Kenny, "You're such a fucking cliché, you know that?"

In a bored voice he asks, "How so?"

"You're giving yourself lung cancer with these things," I wave my cigarette in front of his face, and then proceed to suck on it like its oxygen, only speaking again when I exhale, "And you know it. Because you always die."

"Everyone dies eventually," Kenny shrugs, "At least this way, I'm choosing how I get to go. It's nice to have that option once or twice."

"That's really depressing," Stan scoffs, eyes focused on a streetlight a little ways away. It reminds me of the way Craig was so intent on watching the baseball game, and I wonder what exactly Stan's looking for up there. He's so…capricious lately. And I know that unpredictable things are caused by anger, fear, and love. So what's Stan's reason? He definitely had anger over being abandoned. Did he fear anything? It took a lot for me to think of anything my brave once best friend had ever been afraid of. And did Stan love anything? Well, that just brought us back to anger. About Wendy, I guessed. About broken friendships…I don't know. I really don't know anything about Stan, which sucks, because I thought I knew everything.

"You need to make up," Kenny reasons, blowing smoke into Stan's face just to watch the dark haired boy shy away.

"We're not fighting," he growls back, "Right Kyle?"

"Oh-uh," I mutter, intelligence shining through once more, "Um. Right."

Funny how I'd been kind of under the impression we were. I guess he didn't want to let on, just like when Kenny had asked me before. I think the blonde's kind of insulted that we're not having a big heart to heart in front of him, but he's too chill to really show it.

That's one of the things I love about Kenny. Even though he's a nosy bastard, he's still hyper-aware of when he's toeing the line.

"If you say so," he shrugs and throws his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with the sole of his Timberland boot, which is as scuffed and stained as everything else he owns. To my chagrin he turns towards me and gives me this cutesy, flirtatious smile that he's totally faking just 'cause he knows it makes me uncomfortable, "Ky-le. Let's go back inside and get a drink."

I refuse to be intimidated by my friends, even though they get their jollies off by fucking with me. How do you think I've managed to stay connected with Cartman for so long?

I return his smile, making sure to put every ounce of sex appeal I have in it, doing this little shoulder shrug thing and saying brightly, "Sure thing Ken."

He doesn't even bat an eyelash. Instead, I think he's proud. He's always on my ass about being too uptight.

Stan just mutters something that sounds like 'fags', which might be an appropriate description of Kenny, or perhaps him, but is totally off-base when it comes to me. Mature as ever, I stick my tongue out at him before following Kenny back into Craig's bar.

"Jesus H, guys, took you long enough," Cartman whines the second we find our way back to the bar. Craig's ready with more whiskey. This time it's straight up. For the record, whiskey is so not my favorite drink. I know it's supposed to be manly and everything, but the whiskey sour I bitched about before tasted a hell of a lot better. Not that I'd ever tell Cartman or Kenny that.

"I don't get why you two are so desperate to get drunk anyway," I say, after downing the liquor as fast as possible. That's really the best way to tackle a drink that tastes medicine-foul; drink it so quickly that all you feel is burn.

Kenny gives me this look that kind of screams 'what twenty three year old boy wouldn't want to get drunk?', but all he says is, "Well shit. Yer' just brim-full of fancy, hoity-toity virtue ain'tcha?"

It was a dead on impression of his father.

"Don't ever do that again," Cartman tells him, and I nod my head vigorously in agreement. Back when we were kids, Kenny definitely had a bit of his parents' redneck drawl, but he'd sort of broken himself of it once sixth grade rolled around. Partially because Stan and I had helped, embarrassed that he was driving away the girls.

Kenny gives us a smug smile and wordlessly finishes his drink. He turns to me, "So why do you think Stan and Wendy broke up?"

"Dunno," I reply, suddenly very interested in the way the ice melted into my glass. I dig a cube out, popping it in my mouth, "Maybe she found out."

"Chewing ice is a sign of sexual frustration," Cartman interjects casually. We both ignore him.

"I doubt that," Kenny's eyes roll up to the ceiling, deep in thought, "I kind of got the impression that he was the one who prompted it."

"You're really interested in Stan's relationship."

Serious, he turns to me, "Only because I thought you would be. You're the one who's been hell bent on talking about Marsh twenty four seven since you got back."

"That's-" I feel my face burn, "That's different."

"If you say so," quiet, he sips on his drink, "Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you fuck me?"

I spit the ice cube out, and the projectile zooms right into Craig's head.

"Fucking watch it!" he yelps, flashing me the finger. I apologize, ducking my head so I don't have to see his evil glare, or meet Kenny's watchful eyes. Craig decides not to pursue it, instead hurrying off to help a young couple who just waltzed in. I watch his black haired head bob away.

"Well?" Kenny queries, undeterred.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm seriously," he grins, and even though I'm sure (read: hoping to God) that Cartman wasn't paying attention, he elbows Kenny in the ribs and tells him to mind his filthy po' boy mouth.

"What, you've got a patent on the phrase?" Kenny demands from the fat fuck, who simply crosses his arms and replies, "Actually, yes. I do. You have a problem with that, Kenneh?"

Ever wise, Kenny drops the subject. Apparently it's much more important that he embarrasses the hell out of me, "Sorry Kyle. I mean, I'm serious."

"I don't think I'm entirely comfortable with that. Sorry, dude."

Dead cool, he says, "I don't buy that answer."

"What?" I squeak, wondering why he won't believe me. I've never thought about Kenny that way. I mean, when he first told me he liked dick, I did have that vision of him all sweaty and horizontal, but it's not like I've been having wet dreams about him. I don't think. I don't usually remember my dreams, even when they are of that nature. So Kenny could have had a cameo, maybe.

But I'm not gay, so probably not.

Before I can formulate an answer, Cartman has me by the arm, and I see that Stan has decided to deign us with his presence. Just my luck, I can't escape the meaty hand wrapped around my bicep, and Stan's dutifully avoiding my gaze. Kenny doesn't bother trying to save me, and I can't figure out whether or not I'm relieved.

I stumble after Cartman, who takes me out the same door Kenny lead me through only ten minutes ago, except he isn't satisfied standing beneath the sickly halo of the neon signs. He pulls me down the street, into a dark alley.

"Why were you hesitating?" he asks.

"What?"

"Why were you hesitating to answer Kenneh?" his eyes are dark and dangerous, cinnamon on fire like those flaming drinks Craig makes.

"I didn't," I reply, bewildered as to how this is any of Cartman's business. The night is blanketing the whole alley, masking our presence from the rest of Denver, and from our friends only a little ways away.

"You did," he accuses.

"Why do you care?"

I regret asking. The fat boy abruptly has me pinned up against a wall, and I think maybe he's got a kink for trying to ravish helpless Jews or something, because just like that time at the library I can't escape. However, I'm prepared this time when he tries to kiss me, but not enough. I can't help but be surprised when he lowers his lips to mine more chastely than I thought the Neo-Nazi could possibly be capable of, rather than reenacting the bruising kiss I'd experienced before.

"You didn't take the hint last time," he whispers, his lips brushing over mine as they move. My eyes flicker open and I see his are wide too, as warm and brown as honey, all signs of menace extinguished. Funny how I still feel trapped.

I don't know what to say. What hint am I supposed to be taking? Even though this moment is akin to seeing the softer, gentler side of Eric Cartman, I don't believe for a second that it's real.

I'm sick of having my head fucked with. His lips are still there, his breath hot and scented like a mixture of corn chips and whiskey. Using all the pent up frustration that's been building over the last two months, I shove him away, hard. He stumbles back, his butt hitting the asphalt. I hear his breath whoosh out of him with an 'oomph', but I'm too pissed off to care.

"Jew, what the fuck?" he demands, and even in the dark I can see the scrapes on his palms where he tried to catch himself on the cement.

"You are a ridiculous bastard, you know that?" I practically scream at him, "I'm so sick of this hot and cold thing you're playing at. You kiss me, then you ignore me, and now you're trying to kiss me and tell me what? That you like me?"

Unabashed, Cartman mutters, "Well, yeah. If you weren't so thick, you probably would have picked up on that."

At the mouth of the alley, I see an odd assortment of business men and party girls beginning to assemble, wanting to catch what all the commotion is about.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" I yell, not caring that I'm starting to attract a lot of attention, "I don't for a second believe that. You have some scheme going, and I don't want any part of it. Asshole."

I spit on the sidewalk, although not directly on him, and then march away. Technically speaking, I just threw a hissy fit. I don't care. He's using me for something, even if I can't pinpoint what, and I won't get taken advantage like that again. And if he's not…well…

Cartman will get over it, right? Right? There was something in his eyes, when he kissed me…still, it's not like any of them are in love with me or anything. Kenny just wants sex, I think. Cartman's just fucking with me. I think. Um.

No. I don't think. I know. It's Cartman; obese, sadistic, anti-Semitic, son of a whore Cartman. He has a heart, I know that, and I don't underestimate him because I think he doesn't. The thing's just so buried beneath the folds of his fat that it doesn't really connect with his brain.

Since when did life get so confusing? I trek back into the bar, shoulders slumped and forlorn as can be. Stan's cradling Kenny's body in a booth across from the bar; I think the mechanic passed the fuck out. Meanwhile, he's deep in conversation with Craig, whom I've never seen look more animated. Maybe he really is in love with Stan, and that whole Token thing was honestly a line. Stranger things have happened.

To my surprise, when I get closer I hear Bebe's name being dropped repeatedly. Craig's going on about Bebe and Butters like the two are akin to the bubonic plague, but I can't quite figure out why he's so upset with them. It sounds like they did something to really piss him off, which is kind of confusing to me. I never realized they were even friends with Craig.

"Stan," I interrupt, "Is Kenny okay?"

He glances down at the mechanic, "Yeah. Think so. Just a little trashed."

"He always goes overboard when he drinks," I say fondly, patting my friend's head. He snorts a little in his liquor induced sleep. Craig glances at him distastefully, and I notice that he and Stan have discontinued their conversation. I wonder if I really did intrude.

"Aye!" Cartman storms into the bar, barely squeezing himself through the door, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Drinking, fuckwit," I mutter darkly.

Cartman opens his mouth to say something nasty, I'm sure, but Stan asks, "What's he going on about?"

The brown haired boy freezes. I grin in triumph, knowing that he'll be too embarrassed to admit he was trying to kiss me in front of Stan, Craig, and the entire bar.

'I win' I mouth at him, which he returns with a vicious snarl and a glower.

At least I feel like I got something accomplished tonight.

* * *

 

We drink for another hour, leaving Kenny to snore away in the same booth Craig and Stan had been in. Craig joins us in the festivities, but it doesn't really seem like much of a celebration to me. If anything, the overall atmosphere is tense and unyielding. I think Craig's relieved when we finally decide to skip out on our tab. He doesn't even complain about it.

I help carry Kenny to the parking garage where Cartman's car is, then pause at the entrance.

"What are you doing, Jew?"

I glance at Stan, who's trailing behind us and more than a little unsteady on his feet. If I know Cartman, he'll throw Stan in front of the doorstep of his apartment and abandon him there.

"I think I'm going to take Stan home," I explain, "And you can take Kenny."

Cartman frowns, "Why?"

I shrug, "His house is close to mine."

I can tell that Cartman wants to argue all our houses are close together, but he sort of heaves a sigh and gives in. He casts one last look at me.

"I want to kill you over and over and over again," Cartman groans, heaving Kenny's body over his shoulder and carrying him to his car. I admit to being slightly worried when he throws the blonde into the back seat, but then I see that Kenny merely curls into a little ball and lets loose a content smile. Cartman glares daggers at the poor boy, but he continues to blissfully, ignorantly sleep.

I usher Stan into my car, where he proceeds to stare out the window and fiddle with my radio for the entirety of the drive home. It's rather annoying. There's nothing to look at out there but blue-white snow, and thick cloud cover hazing over the stars. Trust me, I know.

Right before we pull up to his apartment buildings, Stan says, "No."

"No what, dude?"

"I don't want to go to my place."

"Um, why?"

"Wendy's there."

"Why is Wendy in your apartment? Doesn't she live with her parents?"

"Yeah, but…" he sighs, "She stays over a lot, and she doesn't want to tell her mom and dad what's going on with us. So I said she could stay over."

I scowl, "Well, what do you want me to do?"

He looks up at me, all child-like innocence that I don't honestly believe, "Can I stay at your place?"

"Okay," I sigh, "Fine."

We get back to my place. We get back to my place, and since my parents and little brother are all fast asleep, I break out the bottle of vodka I've kept hidden for a special occasion. I have a feeling that Stan and I are about to have a conversation, and I'd rather be drinking my way through it. I worked up a light buzz at the bar, but the long drive here killed it. Now I need to be drunk.

We're in my kitchen, where the light is silver from the moonlight just barely making its way through the clouds. We don't turn on the lights for fear they'll wake my mom, and even though we're legal, she'll still throw a fit if she sees us drinking at…shit, three in the morning. I coerce Stan into a game of 'up the river, down the river' which happens to be my favorite get-drunk-quick fix.

About halfway through, he looks at me.

"Kyle, dude," Stan's frowning, "If something's wrong, you can always tell me. Even if we've been all…distant."

I smile at this admission, "I know."

Whose fault does he think the distance is, I wonder?

"You know we were really getting along there, for a little while," I tell him.

"We're still getting along," Stan says, studying his cards. He's never played this game before, and he's been getting royally screwed.

"This last week or so…"

Fuck it. I hate sounding like a girl. I don't want to talk about my feelings anymore. Just fuck it.

"I know. There's…this thing…"

"Oh. Whatever dude. Are we cool?" I ask, trying to brush it all under the table. I'm trying to get rid of all the problems between us. I'm trying to pretend that everything's magically okay again, that he doesn't have to explain himself to me. I'll be okay, if he doesn't explain.

He blinks, "We're cool."

I'm staring into the depths of my glass, filled with fizzing soda pop and vodka. I ask Stan to pick a suit. He chooses clubs. I tell him to drink eight. He does. He downs it, clutching the glass like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

"I would love to know what's been going on with you," Stan tells me honestly, his cobalt eyes contrasting with the dark hair hanging in front of them, "We haven't been hanging out much."

It's an apology, I think. I smile. I guess I really was worried for nothing. I hope.

"You wouldn't believe what's been going on, dude," I'm already grinning in anticipation of his reaction, which I predict will be hilarious. I can't believe how far off base I am. The second I'm done telling him what Cartman's done, what Kenny's been hinting at, he snaps. His rage comes from nowhere, like a storm that appears without warning on a cloudless day.

Stan's eyes close. His breathing is rapid. Furious, he squeezes the glass in his hand. I watch wordlessly as it shatters, spilling my mixed concoction across the cards, across the table, all over the linoleum. Why is he so angry? The glass flies everywhere, but I barely notice it graze my skin, more concerned with the fact that Stan's hand had just been shredded.

"Fuck dude," I mutter, hurrying to his side and taking hold of his wrist to assess the damage, my elbow settling in the sticky mess of his playing cards, "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Stan's face, red with rage, contorts. His eyes fly open, "They don't love you, Kyle!"

"W-what," I stutter, letting go of his hand so that the blood drips onto the floor.

"Kenny doesn't love you; he's just looking for someone to bang, someone who doesn't feel sorry for him and who'll just treat him like a fucking human being. Cartman doesn't love you either; his mind's just so fucking twisted by juvie that he thinks all that pent up rage he had towards you was actually sexual frustration. He's mistaking his hatred for love."

I think of Cartman's eyes when he tried to kiss me and know that Stan's wrong. Even though I dismissed it as an evil plot or something, there was definitely more to whatever Cartman's thinking than plain sexual frustration. And Kenny…I have no idea what's going on with Kenny, so I don't even try to defend him. Plus I'm just so confused as to where this is coming from that I can't form words anyway.

The dark haired boy is breathing heavily, and I remember that his hand is bleeding all over my kitchen. I hurry back to his side as he mutters, "They don't love you…"

"Okay," I tell him quietly, trying to pick the shards of glass I can see from his palm. When I realize it's futile what with all the blood I coax him over to the sink. Turning on the faucet I meet his serious eyes, which are more sad than angry now.

"I love you."

I blink, "More than Cartman and Kenny?"

It was a stupid thing to say, of course, but honestly Stan is drunk. I doubt he knows much of what he's saying.

"Don't joke about it."

Clean his hand. I focus on that, picking the glistening shards out, soaking his hand, picking more out. It's a process.

"Okay."

"You don't believe me," he says bluntly.

"I do."

I look at him. I really look at him. He looks entirely sober. He looks like I'll shatter his world if I say something wrong. It makes me not want to say anything at all.

I think he might try to kiss me.

I think I don't want him to kiss me.

"I'll go get bandages."

He watches me as I bust my ass to get out of the kitchen, away from him, far away. My heart's pounding, and I don't know why. I rummage through the drawers in my bathroom. When I find the bandages, I glance up. I see my eyes, crystal clear. There's something in them, but I don't know what. Fuck. I'm drunk.

I tentatively make my way back down the stairs, back to him.

He's gone.


	11. And I Didn't Feel A Thing

When I went for the interview with the accounting firm, they asked me three things. Where do I see myself in five years? What is my goal in life? Do I think I'm an asset to their business? The honest answer was I don't know. Now I'm sitting cross legged on top of the same green bedspread I've had since elementary school, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Well, not in the interview. I'm my mother's son, and I managed to bullshit the answers the way I knew they wanted. Obviously I got the internship. But now I'm just staring at the ceiling, thinking, shit. I really don't know. In five years…I thought I would have graduated, rented a house in Boston, found a kickass job, and maybe a girlfriend with nice tits. My goal was to be happy. And I thought I'd be an asset to someone, someday. Being kicked out of my university destroyed everything. In five years, all I'm hoping is I'll be out of South Park. I have no goal, other than that. I don't feel like an asset to anybody. In fact, I feel like a royal fuck up.

Stan loves me.

I don't want to think about that.

Does he want to kiss me? Does he want to fuck me?

That's it. This town is fucking crazy. My once best friend wants in my pants. My other two close friends want in my pants. I want to go buy a fucking chastity belt because I'm mighty scared that my anal virginity is up for grabs. While rape is a harsh word, I wouldn't be surprised if someone has it on the table. Mainly Cartman. Kenny's a close second.

I'm short changing Kenny, I know. He hasn't actually done anything other than help me and flirt. Still. It's the principal of the thing. The thing where he wants to have sex with me. I think. He could have been joking. I'm almost positive he wasn't.

Color me very confused.

I have three voice mails on my cell.

The first goes like this:

"Aye! Jew! Pick up, you fucking kike! I confessed something to you, bitch, and I expect an answer! Are you listening, Kahl? Goddamnit. You're totally screening this. Why are you such an asshat?"

The second goes like this:

"Suck my balls, Jew."

The third…

"Hi, Kyle! It's Wendy. Um, I guess you heard about my little break with Stan. But-oh, that's over now. We're back together. Anyway, it's been a while since you've come around, and Stan's been moping about it. I think he thinks you hate him for some reason. Don't tell him I said that though. He'd be pretty pissed if he knew I was sticking my nose where it didn't belong. Why don't you come over for dinner sometime soon, kay? Bye!"

Wendy's all bright and cheerful and I hate her for sounding so happy. It's gotten to this point, where I'm jealous of the false happiness of my cunthead best friend's girlfriend, who has no idea she's being cheated on. Who has no idea that he's in love with…me.

I agree with Cartman. Goddamnit is really the only word left to use.

This is how it is right now. Three days have gone by. Stan's being a dick when we're in public, and the rare times we're in private quarters, like that awkward night two days ago where mom thought it would be fun to have a family picnic with the Marshes. In the snow in fucking March, but I'll focus on the more positive aspect of Stan completely ignoring me the entirety of the event.

That whole day, I was so mad at him. He'd only just confessed to me the night before, and already he was acting this way. Then, just as we got ready to go, my mom muttering obscenities about Stan being such a rude young man now, he looked at me. He smiled. And for that minute, he was just that scrawny childhood friend of mine.

The next day I saw him in the super market, and we were back to ignoring each other. I'm guessing he really can't stand the fact that he confessed to me. If things weren't fucked up beyond all belief, I might be able to handle this better.

I invite Kenny over for dinner. Up till this point, I don't think mom actually believed me when I said I was going out to spend time with friends. That's part of the reason she roped me into the picnic with the Marshes. I think she's of the opinion that I've been gallivanting around with hussies that I met on the job search. Moses, I wish. Instead the only hussies I get are my friends.

Anyway, Kenny's kind of the only person I'm comfortable with right now. When he told me he wanted me, I still think he half meant it as a joke, or to tease me. I'm probably horrifically wrong; in fact, I think I've already professed to knowing he was genuine, but since I can't gauge how serious he was about it, I'm not letting it bother me. Maybe a little.

Cartman's quote unquote love confession was so unexpected and so nauseating that I just really can't tolerate being around the fat boy right now, and Stan's…well…I don't know. I may be smart, but I'm not a fucking genius. Evidenced by the fact I got kicked out of school for partying too hard. I almost wish I'd sucked it up and argued like a feral cat to stay in school. Then I never would have had to come back to South Park. Nothing's the same as I remember it, and I really wish it was.

When Kenny comes over we shoot the breeze for a little while on my back deck. I'm sitting in a canvas chair soaked through with snow and ice, but I can barely feel it through my ski pants and parka. Have I mentioned that I really hate the cold? Once I get some kind of degree, I'm moving to Tahiti. On the other hand I doubt the humidity will do wonders for my hair.

I'm the one that starts the conversation.

"What are the odds that all four of us turned out gay?"

"I think it would kick that nature versus nurture argument right square in the balls," Kenny replies mischievously, "Because it's obvious the way we were raised had something to do with it. We can't all have just naturally been like this."

I think about it. It makes my head hurt. I'm not out to solve any of the cardinal questions; who am I, is there a God, are people born gay or just made that way? Yeah. I don't care, really. I was just asking to hear myself speak, I think. Sometimes it's nice to hear things out loud.

"I guess it doesn't matter."

"Why Kyle," Kenny puts on this affected Southern drawl that sort of clashes with the Midwestern twang of his natural voice, "Are you trying to admit something here? About your sexuality?"

"No," I cross my arms. He isn't going to drag this out of me. Absolutely not.

He sobers quickly, "You haven't seemed particularly happy of late."

Well, what does he expect? I've gone from finding out one of my friends is gay to finding out they all have raging hard-ons for me. Oh no, that wasn't upsetting at all.

Unhappy, I glare at Kenny.

"You know, I don't want to put any pressure on you," he says softly, a frown twisting his lips, "I told you I want to fuck you. That's…well, that's true. I know you've been wondering. But...you're going to hate me for saying this. Shit, dude. I love you…I sort of mean it in the friends sense, though. I mean, I'm interested in you. Definitely. Kyle, you're the freshest thing to hit this town in a while, and that ass-"

He smirks when I make a little yowl of protest.

"-that ass is fi-ine," the blonde continues, just to irritate me, "But I'm not telling you to mess with your mind. I know you've got a lot on your plate lately."

Goddamnit. Fuck. So he really wasn't playing around before. He loves me too. Everyone loves me, or likes me in Cartman's case. And I don't love anyone. Now I feel like a heartless jerkoff. He smiles, this tentative little thing. Great. Now he's going to be one of those considerate guys with a crush on me. That's so nice. The main problem being, I still am not fucking gay!

"Thanks Ken," I glare at him, "Real helpful."

He smiles cheekily, "I live to help."

"I bet I could fix that," I grumble, thinking of all the different ways there are to actually kill Kenny. My mom wouldn't jive with the blood on the carpet though, and since he's already getting up and going inside, that idea is moot.

I follow him. My head's full on pounding now.

"You really mean it, about no pressure?" I ask, playing the devil's advocate. Kenny's got a lot of experience with the devil.

"I mean it."

His cerulean eyes are bright and sincere. He's not going to charge at me and kiss me. This is a completely different feeling than I got from Stan the other night. I can't decide whether I like it better or worse. He's got me captured in his gaze, and the moment feels…light. There's no intensity here. This isn't Cartman trying to rape me, or Stan putting all his emotions on my shoulders. This is just Kenny, who's going to be fine, either way, no matter what I decide. He's a survivor.

My gaze sweeps over his face, his devilish smirk, the way his hair goes white blonde at the shaggy tips, how his eyebrows are so light they're barely there, and how he can never quite erase the grease stains on his cheeks. His neck muscles are there, not pronounced, but definitely visible, straining ever so slightly in my direction. His torso is long. I can almost see this little pale patch of skin where his parka's hanging open and his wife beater's riding up. I can see the light, nearly invisible hair that trails from his belly button downwards. I…

My butt vibrates.

I'm still watching Kenny.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Kenny inquires mildly.

I pick up.

I tell the caller, "I will not suck your balls, Cartman."

Then I hang up.

Whatever the airy moment that just passed was, it's gone now. Kenny's in hysterics, clutching his stomach and belly-laughing like I just told the funniest joke ever. I'm still stuck on the fact that I was checking him out. Honestly. As…as something. I don't know.

My feelings are more jumbled than a rubber band ball, and I can't figure out whether I was just looking at Kenny like I'd look at a girl, or if I was just daydreaming in general.

Kenny's finally managed to stop laughing, and he pulls a chair out from my kitchen table set, straddling it so that his hands and head are resting on the backrest. Stan was sitting there a few nights ago. Yelling at me. Telling me things. Things I will not think about.

"Kyle, dude. Priceless. This is why he likes you so much. You're the only one who just will not put up with his shit."

"You knew that Cartman was that into me?" I feel kind of betrayed by his not sharing this knowledge. Maybe it would have helped me avoid getting ruthlessly attacked by the fat fuck's lips. Twice.

Kenny eyes me, "Duh. He's been jonesing for your ass since elementary. If all that cussing and manipulation targeted at you wasn't a tip off, I don't know what was. It's like how Wendy used to pull Stan's hair when were five. That's how she roped him in."

"Okay, trying to kill me is not quite the same thing as having a crush, Ken."

The blonde rolls his eyes and retorts, "He gave you AIDS. He tried to get you to suck his balls, and then he gave you AIDS. Seriously, Kyle."

Shit. Okay, when you say it like that, it does sound like I've been missing something.

"He probably has some twisted Nazi-Jew-Concentration camp fantasy, which is why he's been so fixated on you forever."

I shudder. So don't want to go there.

"I bet he couldn't even say he loves you."

"You've got that right."

"He does though."

I slide into the chair across from him, protesting, "What? Kenny!"

"No, hear me out. I tried to tell you last time, but you were like, no Kenny. He's just fucking with me. Look, as far as Eric Cartman knows how to love, he loves you. I'm not saying that this emotion of his is the same as, say, how I love you."

I groan, slamming my head into the table, "Just had to throw that in there, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah."

"Continue."

"So anyway, he doesn't have the same emotion, but it's still an emotion. I'm not saying that you should take him up on it or that even if you did, it would end up being anything other than some sadistic trick of his. I'm just saying the feeling exists. Know that you made Cartman feel something other than disgust for all mankind, feel proud, and move on."

"He kissed me."

"Again?"

"Mmm," I nod slowly. I know we talked about the library incident, and I know Kenny did try to say something about Cartman's infatuation. I blew him off. Because of that I wasn't even going to mention the most recent incident. Something about him makes me want to open up to him though. I wonder if I'm just using him as my replacement Stan.

"Yeah?" Kenny frowns, bites his lip, "Yeah. He would. He's got balls."

After a minute he asks, "How was it?"

"I…it made me feel…"

Okay, he didn't ask THAT last time. No way am I admitting that the first kiss, the one that wasn't all sweet and un-Cartman-like, made me a little horny. Kenny doesn't need to know that. I tell him anyway.

"Kyle, you dog," he says, laughing.

The next thing I know he's got his elbows propped up on the table, reaching across for the collar of my coat. He's pulling me forward, and maybe I'm half accepting it because I'm still hypnotized by those damnable blue eyes. I let him crush his lips to mine, and they're infinitely softer than Cartman's, and then I'm being pinned down on my own fucking kitchen table, where my family eats dinner together every night and Ike tells us all about school. Kenny's fingers, fuck, those fingers, are nimbly unzipping my jacket, and his is already unzipped and his shirt is riding up. Those abs he gets from working in that sweatshop of an auto body repair place all day are firm under my palms, way more than any girl's would be. I'm panting into his mouth, vaguely wondering if this is what it would be like with Stan, and then GOD, Kenny's mouth is on my neck, his tongue lavishing way too much attention over my Adam's apple and where my jaw connects with my ear. I'm bucking up into his body, into his fingers. He's kissing me again, hard.

I'm enjoying it way too much, but I don't think about that, letting him pull my jacket off entirely, letting him yank my vintage 'The Cure' shirt off over my head, letting him do pretty much anything he wants to me because his kisses are that fucking amazing. And then, just when I think that maybe I'm starting to lose too much control, his mouth is on my ear, hot breath and flicks of his tongue clouding my judgment.

He whispers, "See how slutty your body can be?"

I go rigid. He pulls back. He smirks. He jumps off the table set and fixes his shirt like nothing just happened. I watch, quiet, as he pulls on his jacket and says, "Kyle, you have some things you need to think about. I'm not going to fuck that up for you."

It's only the fact that his breathing is still hard and his face slightly flushed that tells me he's not as put together as he's trying to seem.

"Think about it," he tells me, and then he leaves.

I'm sitting half naked on top of the kitchen table when my mom and Ike walk in.

* * *

 

Shit. My ears are ringing. My mother has a voice like a banshee. When she finally got over the fact my butt was marring the semi-gloss of the table, she went in on me for not spending enough time with Ike. Which is true, but I've been kind of stuck between job hunting, avoiding her, and drama. The only free time I have between, Ike's usually in school.

Apparently those aren't good reasons for not hanging out with my baby brother, so now I'm supposed to spend tomorrow after work taking him to the movies. It's not that big a deal. Ike's a cool kid. He's smart, which is more than I can say for the rest of this town, and he's friendlier than I ever was in high school.

I guess I was just hoping to use tomorrow to think.

Sweet Jesus. I don't know what to do. All I really can comprehend is the fact that saying 'I don't know' all the time is not only annoying, but it's making me into one whiny little bastard. Fuck. Okay. Time to analyze.

Am I into boys?

No. Not at all. Barring what just happened with Kenny, and that one time with Cartman, I find that I am part of the cult of the poontang. I love pussy. Right?

Do I find Cartman or Kenny sexually attractive?

No. Big blobs of fat don't do it for me. Kenny…I mean, anyone would react when someone's sucking their neck like that. Fuck, do I have a hickey? I'll have to check before I hit the sack. But anyway, when he's not all tongue and lips, Kenny's just another guy. A friend, but not a sexy friend. Definitely. I think.

Do I find Stan sexually attractive?

That would be a big hell no. I mean, I get that he's entirely a stud, or so several of the girls in high school and several college friends might have claimed. I can conceptualize that, but it doesn't really ring true with me. There's this niggling feeling in the back of my mind that what I just did with Kenny might have been even better with Stan, but I nix that thought. Even if I was into guys, Stan is Stan. He's the kid I grew up with, having farting contests and trying to see who could down chimichangas fastest. That's not really a recipe for love.

Love. Shit. Do I love Stan?

Yeah. Of course I do. He's my childhood best friend. I want him to be my best friend again, desperately so. I just don't love him in the I-want-to-get-in-your-pants kind of way. But he loves me. They all love me. Even Cartman, according to Kenny.

And now they all want me to tell them which of them I love back. Have they even considered the possibility that the answer is none of them? They must've. So why tell me at all? I mean, sure, I love them all in a platonic, let's drink and watch football together and maybe cry, but only at your grandmother's funeral sort of way. But do I love any of them in that true love chick flick romantic sort of way? No. They must know that. They have to. I don't get why all three of them are of the impression that telling me their feelings would get them anywhere. Why risk our friendship over it? Maybe they all know me well enough that they realize I'm cool enough to let it slide. Or maybe they just couldn't hold it in anymore.

I think of Kenny saying that he wouldn't push me.

Obviously I wouldn't mind a little below the belt action. Well, I think I would mind, but according to Kenny the way my 'slutty body' reacts kind of conflicts with what I think. This whole true love thing though…I'm only twenty three. I'm not ready to make a life decision. I don't know if I'll ever be ready. What good is it being so damned smart if you can't graduate school, can't decide who to date, can't even support yourself in any single fucking way? I'm hopeless. I don't want to hurt any of my friends. They mean so damned much to me that the thought of losing any of them is stifling, even Cartman. But I don't want to lead them on either. All this attention is nice, but completely unwanted. I think. I hope. God, I'm fucked.

Can I let this get between us?

I could. It would be easy. As easy as that fight at the bus depot that caused Stan and I not to talk for three years.

Do I want to let it?

No. I don't want to live without Stan in my life, without any of them. I can do it. I have done it. I don't want to. I think I need them, Stan especially. To keep me focused. To keep me sane. All I did at college was party and study and forget who I was. Now that I'm back in South Park, and much as I hate it, I'm starting to remember that I have goals. I have dreams. And even though I've spent most of my time with Stan fighting, with Kenny drinking, and with Cartman yelling, I think they're somehow a part of me rediscovering all that. Mainly Stan. I've spent so much time psychoanalyzing him that I'm starting to learn things I didn't know about myself.

I need him to keep challenging me like that. I need them all.

This is killing me.

Right before I go brush my teeth, I check my neck in the mirror. There's a dark purple bruise, right below my ear.

Thanks a lot, Kenny.


	12. My Heart Can't Break 'Cause The Beating Stops

Christ. So, I've decided I have to do something.

My first priority is patching things up with Stan. Kenny can wait for a little while, and I have to formulate some kind of plan before approaching Cartman. Stan's not exactly my easiest option, seeing as he's been hot and cold about the whole renewing our friendship from the get go. I seriously doubt him having a boner for me is going to help that, but I figure if I just accept Wendy's invitation to dinner, I'll at least have backup in getting my BFF back. I can work on the 'love' thing later.

I call her up. She's absolutely ecstatic to hear from me, which makes me feel like the lowest cretin. The words 'I'm-sorry-but-your-boyfriend-confessed-he-loves-me' nearly slip from my lips, as a way of saying goodbye. Telling Wendy wouldn't exactly be conducive to ensuring Stan remains my friend, so I clamp my mouth shut and flip my cell closed. The words bubble up from my throat anyway, and I say them to my empty room, to the faded posters on my wall. I need to tell somebody. I haven't even told Kenny, not in so many words. I mean, how do you just go around saying it?

"Stan Marsh is in love with me," I whisper to my posters again, and it sound absolutely ludicrous. Stan Marsh, the golden boy of South Park, the former pitcher of the baseball team and all around good guy, is in love with me. Me, the college flunkout.

Okay, so maybe I had potential once. And maybe he's not really South Park's golden boy anymore. That was a high school thing, and it's not like he's really achieved much more than me now. But I'm sure if I give him some time, he'll make something of himself.

I hope I'll make something of myself too.

"I'm gay," I try, the words sounding bitter and wrong on my tongue. You know, there has to be a solution to all of this. I'll figure it out. I have to.

Maybe if I find a girlfriend.

I brighten. That's actually a good idea. Yeah, I could find a girlfriend.

My hopes are dimmed seconds later. What girl is going to want to date me? In the nearly three months I've been here, not a single lady has expressed an ounce of interest in me. Unless you count Bebe, which I don't.

I walk to Stan's apartment building. It takes a good half hour, and the street around me sparkles. Everything's been coated over by a solid sheet of ice, on top of the already frozen ground beneath. Even the tread on my boots isn't holding up to the slip-n-slide of asphalt. It's March, and South Park is still vying for the position of coldest place on Earth, competing against Moscow and Antarctica. The street lamps pool across the sidewalk, illuminating patches of crystalline shine that could easily be mistaken for puddles rather than death traps. One misstep and I'll spend most of summer in crutches. Dude, I hate this town.

The walk up to the seventh floor has never seemed quite so long. I end up standing outside Stan's door for nearly half an hour before I can push myself into knocking.

I could still turn around.

Deciding to man up, I knock. After a minute or so, the door creaks back. There's Stan. He's all disheveled black hair and rumpled clothes. I can see bags under his eyes. Shit.

Quietly, he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Wendy invited me to dinner."

"Fuck," he curses softly, "She acts like she lives here."

I don't say anything about how lucky he is to have a girlfriend who'll make him dinner in the first place. I hold my mouth tightly closed, studying him. It looks like he's been having trouble sleeping. I may have been up all night contemplating my sexuality, but something's really doing a number on him. I wonder if it's the fact that he confessed to me. That couldn't really have been that important, could it?

If he was telling the truth, then obviously it could. I'm such a moron. I just still can't believe he wasn't being drunk and stupid.

"Can I come in?"

Stan looks startled. I think he forgot I was still standing on his welcome mat, waiting for an invitation.

"Kyle!" I hear Wendy cheer from the kitchen. She's dressed in this tiny black suit. I guess she has work soon. It is a Thursday, after all.

A horrifying thought comes to me unbidden. She's not going to leave me alone with him, is she?

She turns and smiles at me, running her fingers quickly under the faucet before coming to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. I can see under the suit she's decked out in this cleavage bearing black shirt that clings to her in all the right places. Stan's a lucky bastard. Even though she technically doesn't live here, I think she spends more time cooking and cleaning in Stan's apartment than he does.

"Wendy," I begin.

She cuts me off, saying brightly, "I have to go to work now, but I made chicken parmigiana. It's on the stove, cooling down. Help yourselves boys!"

Why that sneaky bitch.

"I don't know if you leaving is such a good idea," I mutter.

"Kyle," she admonishes, "I need to go make some money. You play nice."

She grabs her car keys off Stan's coffee table, kisses him on the lips, and then flies out the door.

"Shit," I say, loud enough that Stan can hear.

"You don't have to stay."

"I think I do," I say, "She's probably got a camera set up outside to make sure I don't leave."

"Knowing Wendy," a smile graces his lips briefly, "Probably."

He grabs two paper plates and two glasses of Coke, setting them up on the table in front of his flat screen.

"Wanna watch baseball?"

"I'm not that big a fan," I admit.

"But you always came to my games in high school."

I'm embarrassed, "That's because you were playing."

"Oh."

We eat in almost total silence.

It's when Stan's disposing of our plates and setting our glasses in the sink that I decide to speak up.

"Stan."

"Yeah, dude?"

"I don't want things to be like this."

"Like what?"

God, he's frustrating.

"Awkward," I enunciate the word.

I can tell he's about to make some smart aleck reply. He opens and closes his mouth. Then he says, "I guess I don't either. But dude…"

"Say whatever you're thinking. It's a little too late to get shy," I tell him. Mostly because I don't want to watch him stand there and stutter over how to phrase things for the next half hour. Sometimes Stan has all the articulateness of an elementary school aged Butters.

"I- nothing," he blinks, shame creeping up and over the back of his neck in the form of a hot red blush. He changes the subject, "So you smoke."

"I- what?"

"When we were in the alley with Kenny, you smoked a cigarette."

Shit. He noticed.

"I kept my promise," I say, "Mostly. I only smoked a few times after high school."

"A few times too many."

"You smoked too," I point out.

"But I didn't break a promise."

Well. Now he's looking at me like I just shot his puppy. I think he can tell that I'm getting kind of upset by the way he's looking at me, because all of a sudden Stan goes, "Wanna cookie?"

I'm thrown by all these twists in our conversation. I manage to shrug. Sure, why not?

I watch, quiet, as he reaches up to the very top shelf, shirt riding up ever so slightly. I can see the sharp curve of his hipbone. I never really noticed a guy's hipbone before, but Stan's is nice. There's this dark line, shading downward, towards the sloping area beneath his stomach, where this little dark patch of hair starts and…

What the fuck did Wendy put in that food? Shit.

The shape of his muscles is outlined as his tee strains up, shoulder blades rippling through the thin material as he pulls down his prize.

"Aha! I knew I hid it up here. Wendy's too short to reach," he tells me triumphantly. He pulls down a carton full of Oreos, clutching them to his chest like a trophy.

Once he makes his way back to the couch, he sets the down in front of me. I grab one, twisting it apart and licking off the white filling.

"So how's your mom?" he asks. I can tell he's totally grasping for conversation starters, anything that doesn't have to do with the tension between us.

"I don't know. I haven't seen much of her."

That's not exactly a lie. She caught me on the kitchen table nearly a week ago, and that was pretty much the last I saw of her in between going to work and carting Ike around to wherever his little heart desires. I do know that she has been buzzing around the house for days, talking about something the few times I saw her. I zoned out every time. So kill me.

"Oh. Bet she's with mine then," he muses.

"You know what our parents are up to?" I ask, mildly interested.

"Yeah, something about the town being overrun with circus clowns intent on eating everyone's brains."

I knew that guy I saw at the bus stop on the way here had been a little weird, but I figured the red nose was from a cold or something. Now I get it.

"Jesus. You ever get the sense we're getting more and more out of sync with this town?"

"Like how our adventures stopped when we got into high school?" Stan said with a chuckle.

"Something like that. Everything my mom does just seems so…unreal, now."

"Yeah."

It kind of sucks that the town of South Park remains every bit as crazy as it was when we were kids, but we're so distanced from it all now.

"By the way," Stan quirks an eyebrow, "Cartman called."

"Moses," I curse.

"He said to tell you that you're a Jesus killing asshole and to stop screening his calls."

"He's such a prick."

Stan smiles fondly, "He can't help it. He hasn't been laid since…well, probably never."

I have to stop myself from asking what Stan's excuse is, because he's getting all sweaty and horizontal quite frequently and still ends up acting like a complete butthole. Oh wait. I'm his excuse. Maybe. I'm glad I was blessed with the ability to hold my tongue sometimes. As long as Eric Cartman isn't on the premises, anyway.

I decide I have to broach the subject. I'm a man. I have to be brave. Never mind that I'd rather tell Stan thanks for the meal and go find a brain eating clown to off me before I can say something that'll royally fuck up our whole relationship.

"Stan, about the other night."

My voice rings out clearly in the wide open space of the apartment. In fact, I'm positive it's echoing all the way down to the ground floor. Stan's gone completely pale, and he looks even worse than when he first opened the door.

"Kyle-"

"No. Let me say this," I take a deep breath, "I'm not gay."

"Neither am I," he snaps.

"Okay, well I'm not bisexual, either."

That shuts him up.

"You were always my best friend, and it seemed like we were finally getting that back. I don't want to mess that up."

My heart's racing. Damn. If this is even half how Stan felt when he told me he loved me, I can see why the whole topic makes him twitchy. I feel like Tweek Tweak, the way my nerves are jingle jangling around like I've had one too many cups of coffee.

Stan's not saying anything. Fuck.

"How do you know you're not gay?"

What? Okay, not the response I was expecting.

"Because I like pussy."

That was totally the most sensible answer I could think of.

"You've never tried anything else."

"I don't want to," I retort.

"Okay. Let's put it this way," he's looking out the window, over his amazing view of the tiny lights of downtown South Park, "I've been in love with you since we were ten years old. I didn't tell you, because I didn't want to fuck up our friendship."

His voice is dry, and I can tell he's being ironic. So not funny.

"After our friendship did get fucked up, I wished more than anything else that I'd told you. I thought maybe, just maybe if I'd said something, anything about how I felt, you would've called me. You would've felt guilty for abandoning me."

"I did feel guilty, Stan."

"Since you came back…I don't know, Kyle. It just felt like I couldn't hold it in any longer. Our friendship is already fucked up. I know you want to go back to being super best friends, or whatever, but I kind of don't think that's possible anymore."

"What?"

My mouth is dry. My heart is beating so hard it might pop out of my chest in a moment. Or maybe it'll just stop, and I'll die, right here, on his carpet.

"You heard me," his cobalt eyes are on me, taking me in. I've never been looked at like that before. I'm not entirely uncomfortable with it though, "Kyle, I love you. I've loved you forever. I don't think I'm going to stop loving you any time soon. It hurts, knowing that you don't feel the same way. Maybe if I'd told you before our fight, I would've been okay just staying friends. But now…I can live without you. It hurts like a bitch, but not as much as it does being near you and knowing that I can't have you."

I yelp, "Stan."

"I'm serious."

"Everyone's serious. Everyone's so fucking serious about this love me or leave me crap," I'm yelling, and I know he's taken aback by it. I'm just so fucking angry. I can feel warmth and wetness in my eyes. Shit. I'm not going to cry. I furiously wipe a hand over my eyes and scream, "Goddamnit. Why don't you realize that I can't live without you?"

Oh. Now the people downstairs definitely heard.

"Kyle."

"That's not the way I meant it," I say, stunned at myself.

"It sounded that way."

"But it's not. Living without you- my best friend- was like hell. I felt numb, all the time."

"Me too."

"But not for the same reason?"

"No."

"Motherfucker."

"Maybe you should think about it?" he suggests, and I can tell that even though he thought he was so ready to let me go if I didn't love him back, he's not as certain as he seems.

"Maybe I should," I sigh, knowing that the outcome won't be the one he wants, "You too."

"My answer won't change."

"I doubt mine will either, Stan."

"But it could."

I think of making out with Kenny. There was no denying that I was physically attracted to him while he was grinding up on me. I wonder if I could feel the same way about Stan. I consider it for a second, thinking it would be so easy to step forward and take him into my arms, to crush my lips against his. It might be nice. It might be more than nice. But I'm not gay.

I can't be.

"It could," I finally agree, mostly because I need him to give me enough time to make him want to stay my friend. That's too important for me to give up on it.

"Then think about it. I'll give you a month."

"That's all?" I squeak.

"Yeah."

"Okay," I bite my lip, "But you have to give me something back."

He looks at me, dubious, "What?"

"No cheating. If you really love me, would you cheat on me?"

"I would never," his cheeks color.

"How do you know?" I press him, remembering our conversation about sex, "How do you know if you were to do something with me-"

I pause and gulp. Sex with Stan. Eurgh.

Sadly I don't find the idea as disgusting as I would like.

"-If you were to do something with me, how do you know you would feel something?"

He shrugs helplessly, "I would."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've always felt something, just being with you."

He's such a romantic, it's pathetic. I feel my belly getting all warm and fuzzy. No. Stop that right now, I tell myself.

"So then for this whole month, don't cheat on Wendy."

"But I can still be with her?"

"That's up to your own conscious," I say, "There's no guarantee that I'm going to decide I'm in love with you."

"Kyle," he's looking at me, his gaze so intense that I want to shrink into the carpet.

"Mmm?"

"Decide you want me," he says, his voice small.

Oh, Moses. I'm going to cry again. No. Guys don't cry. I mutter, "I'll try."

Then I leave, because I can't stand looking at him anymore.


	13. So I Found Me A Whore With A Face Just Like Yours

I knock on Kenny's door, taking a deep breath. It seems I'm always nervous around front doors these days. Or maybe I'm just scared of the people behind them.

"Whaddayou want?" a voice calls out from behind the door. I stare at the white painted panels and sigh.

"Kenny? Open up."

"Goddamnit, Kyle. It's like, four in the morning. Some of us have to work on Saturdays."

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too. Don't make me kick this door down."

It swings open, revealing Kenny in all his glory. Not really. He does happen to only be wearing a pair of jeans that's riding rather low on his hips. He pads toward me, barefoot.

"Yer an asshole, ya know that?"

Ooh. He gets snarky when he's tired. And turns into a total redneck. I snicker at his affected accent.

"We're going out," I announce, roping him towards me with an arm and directing him back into the apartment, where I push him down on his shabby brown sofa. I plop down beside him.

He snarls, "Like hell we are."

"What if I told you we're going to a strip club?"

He frowns at me. Boobs are his kryptonite, gay or not.

Which reminds me.

"Kenny, when we first met…again, and you took me to that white trash trailer party, you were totally chatting up this girl. You even accused me of cock blocking you. What was that about?"

I don't know why this question came to me at the time when my brain should be roughly set on sleeping. I guess I've spent so much time pondering sexuality that any incongruity I see makes me jump at a chance to find straightness in any one of my friends.

"I was?" he shrugs, "Guess so. I toldja already. South Park isn't exactly brimming with boys willing to fuck like rabbits. I take it where I can get it."

"So you'd have sex with a girl?"

"I've never done it before, have I?" he half sneers, half yawns, "Dun know if'd really enjoy it, but it's a'ight if I close my eyes and think of…well, dudes, dude. Anyway, if you get 'em good and drunk, they're maybe willing to turn around and try letting me stick it somewhere new. From the back it's easier to imagine. I think. Not that've tried yet."

"Aw, sick dude."

I did not need that mental imagery.

He shrugs again, his mussed blonde hair shining in the dim lighting of his apartment. He almost looks like he has a halo.

Yeah, right. Like Kenny McCormick could ever be an angel.

I make him down an energy drink and dawn a faded gray sweatshirt. It's the first thing I've seen him wear that isn't stained with engine grease. He's just about back to talking in normal dialect by the time we reach the strip joint, which is so brightly lit that it might as well be day time in the parking lot.

"Why'd you want to come here, anyway?"

"I need some estrogen in my life," I reason.

"That's what your mom's for."

I shake my head vehemently, "My mother's gone through menopause every day of her life. There's not an ounce of girl in her."

"I know what you're doing. I don't entirely approve."

"Approve of what?" I lower my eyes. It's the universal signal for back the fuck off, in my mind. Kenny doesn't take the hint.

"This booty-shake-the-gay-away thing isn't going to work. You're going to wake up tomorrow morning- er, afternoon, feeling a hundred bucks broker and still have three gay fucking friends."

"Yeah, well. At least this time if I wake up with hickeys they won't be from you or Cartman."

"Ooh, low blow," he laughs, "You enjoyed it."

"Fuck, Ken. I had to borrow some of my mom's concealer for dinner with Stan the other night."

"Why? Scared he'd get jealous?"

Um. Yes, actually. I don't say anything. I've been wary about dropping details about what went on with Stan; although I think I already leaked a bit too much to my mechanic friend. He at least knows what Stan's been doing with Craig, and somehow he found out a bit about the confession too, although not everything. I'm keeping our conversation on Thursday night mum though. I don't want to have to worry that he'll get jealous too.

One of these days, Kenny and I are going to have to sit down and have a long chat. Maybe that's why I'm dragging him to the strip club. To avoid that day.

The place is packed, to my surprise. We'll be lucky if we get the ugliest stripper here, but I guess that's better than no tits at all. The only seating we can find is directly at the bar, where Kenny promptly orders up a round of drinks. He's firm in his attempts to further destroy my liver.

We watch one of the girls on stage for a while. She's got thunder thighs and a ghetto booty, but her hair is black and silky and makes me think of someone I can't quite recall. And wow, her eyes are cat shaped and blue. I can see why she has this job, even if her body isn't really my type. Wow. Blue. Kenny turns to me with a smile, and I realize he has blue eyes too, clear cerulean, like the sky before twilight. I almost think, just for a second, that I wish they were the color of Ye Olde New England seaport; the color the thrashing waves get right before a winter storm.

Okay. Moses, I don't even think I need the drink. I'm obviously already cracked out.

That being said, I down the entire concoction in front of me without even pausing to realize that I just drank half a glass of tequila. It burns its way down my throat, leaving me coughing and gasping for air.

"Whoa there, buddy," Kenny exclaims, slapping my back. He whispers into my ear, "Breathe. Just breathe, and you'll get through it."

I do. The burning sensation passes.

My eyes are greeted with the sight of soft, milky curves. Someone's breasts are right in front of me. I look up and see Red-er, Passion beaming at me.

"Wow. Never seen someone go down so hard," she chirps, "Should I tell Wanda to get you another drink? Maybe a soda?"

"I'm good," I croak, still hypnotized by those lumps of flesh in front of me. I can tell Kenny's staring too on my side, as I hear the faint drawl of 'boobs' near my ear.

We're such pervs.

"Do you fellows want a dance?" Red asks, shimmying her hips a bit to get us even more enticed. It works. I gulp and nod.

About two lap dances later, I'm sipping on a glass of water and Kenny's got his face buried in some blonde dancer's crotch, which she grinds into his nose. I hope that's sanitary.

Red's perched next to me, telling me some high school story and giggling.

I interrupt her, "So, this gig you got here, does it let you date people?"

Red blinks, her eyes big. They're blue, too, "Well, not many people wanna date a stripper, Kyle."

She leans into me, her breasts molding to the side of my arm, "Why, you asking?"

I think about it. It doesn't take me long. At least I'll get a pity fuck out of it; she is a stripper, after all.

"Sure."

* * *

 

I'm at Craig's bar again. I don't know how I keep letting myself get roped into coming here. It's Monday night, and I had a long day at work. The last thing I need is to spend time with my sexually confused friends and alcohol. That hasn't been working out for me so well as of yet. This time though it's only Stan and I. He was in town and gave me a call. Its part of our 'let's-see-what-happens' gig. I thought perhaps he was in town to fuck Craig, which would fully nullify our contract, but he swears he only came to Denver for business. Since he insisted on dropping by to visit Craig, I figure he's not lying about not seeing him.

Craig's pouring up a round of pitchers when we come in, but even with his back turned I can see from his reflection in the grimy bar mirror that something isn't right. He turns towards us, and I feel Stan stiffen beside me. He always gets so righteous when he thinks a friend is in trouble.

Almost casually, Stan calls out, "Craig. C'mere a second."

Craig delays, pouring us both drinks before he walks around the bar and takes a seat beside Stan, keeping his head low. It does nothing to hide the black and blue area surrounding his eye, or the yellowish bits radiating down his cheekbone. I don't think I've ever seen such a vicious looking black eye.

"Nice shiner you got there," Stan tells Craig, picking up the glass the bartender brought and fiddling with it. He takes a sip, and more than ever I think the two of them looked like brothers, "Where'd you get it?"

"Token."

Stan nearly spits out his drink, "Dude, Token's back in town?"

"For a week. Visiting his 'rents," Craig says, acting more casual than he sounds.

"So what'd you do to get hit?" I ask, almost wishing I hadn't when he and Stan both glare at me. I didn't realize their conversation was private time, so sorry.

Craig is careful about choosing his words, "I visited."

"That's all?"

"With Token, that's all I need to do to piss him off."

Stan frowns. I can tell he wants to say a lot, but I don't really know much about Token and Craig's situation. I can't predict what words are about to come tumbling out of my friend's mouth.

I definitely don't predict this.

"You really have some fucking balls."

Craig turns toward Stan, "What?"

"You know damned well how Token feels about that shit."

"Stan, dude," Craig holds up his hands, "Why are you suddenly on his side?"

"I had a chat with Bebe and Butters. I'd bet my left nut they're the ones that got Token to come visit, you know?" Stan takes a long gulp of his drink and says idly, "They've kept in contact with him. They told me what he said to you. You've been lying all this time."

"What the hell are you on about?" Craig's ears are turning pink. Not a good sign. I see his middle fingers twitching, which is sort of a grammar school reflex of his. I have no idea what Stan's implying, but its obvious Craig does.

Stan twirls his glass under his fingers, the dratted thing catching the dim light of the bar and sparkling.

"Bebe told me what Token said to you at graduation," almost indignantly Stan raised the glass to his lips and then said, "He did not tell you to fuck off."

"Essentially he did," Craig retorted, angry.

"He told you to wait for him till he finished fucking med school!" Stan practically explodes, jumping out of his seat and taking hold of the collar of Craig's nice white starched shirt. Taken aback the other boy just stared straight into Stan's eyes.

"Yeah," Craig shrugs, "He said that if I still felt the same way after he'd gotten his MD that he'd give us a try. As a couple."

I watch the way Craig's lips twist around the word 'couple', almost like it's leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"So how does that translate into fuck off?" Stan demands. Half the patrons of the bar are staring now. I'm so not getting involved. No. No, no, no.

I swear to Moses, Craig has the most pitiful look on his face when he mutters, "He doesn't want me. He was just saying it because he thought it would get me off his back so he could escape to Califuckingfornia. I mean, he doesn't honestly believe I'm going to hold out while he goes to med school. That's four more years, on top of what I already waited for. In fact, I know he doesn't believe me. After what I got up to in high school, he can't possibly believe it. That wait for me shit was just what he said to deter me."

"You've held out four years already! You're so lost over him that you're definitely going to wait another four. Token knows you're a loyal guy," Stan huffs and pushes a hand through his thick, dark hair, "You're just being a complete and utter moron."

"I am not waiting four years for that bastard," Craig frowns, "He doesn't believe I will. You know it."

"He does," Stan insists, and then asks, "You're not?"

"Not what?"

"Going to wait for him?"

"I already haven't. I've been giving it to you, haven't I?" the skinny bar-owner cocks an eyebrow.

Stan's cheeks redden, and I can tell he's embarrassed that Craig's airing his dirty laundry in front of me. He's ashamed of his relationship with Craig.

For the first time the implications of Stan and my conversation about his loyalty really sinks in. He wants to be loyal…to me. He wants to be with me.

My heart flutters.

Okay. Weird.

"Shut up," Stan ducks his head beneath one long-fingered hand, and I can tell he's starting to get pissed.

"What? Kyle already knows," Craig spares a glance at me, and I can tell he's actually slightly apologetic for bringing me into it, but that he's too wound up about Token to care.

My friend seethes, "Leave. Kyle. Out of this."

I kind of agree.

The bar lighting is making Craig's face look sallow, but I can tell Stan's cheeks are fully flushed. He leans closer to the bar owner, and all I can see is his back. I think he's mouthing something he doesn't want me to hear.

Craig swivels back on his chair, about to get up and march away, "Screw you, Marsh."

"You already have. You're not even that good," Stan comments, gathering up his faded black leather bomber jacket and fishing in the pocket for his car keys. Gee. This was a brief, awkward excursion. I wonder if all our bonding time will be like this.

"You know, I bet the reason Kyle doesn't like you is because you're such a whiny little pussy," Craig sneers, stopped at the trapdoor that lead behind the bar. I guess he didn't like Stan's commentary on his skills in the bedroom. I'd really hoped he was up to ignoring it.

"I told you not to bring Kyle into this," Stan warns.

I tug on the sleeve of his shirt and hiss, "Dude, let it go. I just want to go home now."

Great. Now I sound like a girl.

Stan tugs free of my grip. He drops his jacket and keys onto the barstool, and marches over to Craig, taking hold of the collar of his shirt, "Just mind your own damned business. Maybe you're right. Maybe the reason Token doesn't want to be with you is because he knows you can't stop being such a whore. If there's anything worse than being a flaming queer, it's being a man slut on top of that."

Damn, Stan. What happened to being a pacifist?

Craig takes a swing at him, which doesn't really surprise me. The patrons of the bar are looking on, unsure whether to run and skip out on their tabs, or to sit and watch the action. A lady in a red dress shrieks a little as Stan ducks the punch and loses balance; stumbling into the table she was sharing with what looks to be an underage boy. Stan regains his footing easily, and he lunges forward, striking Craig directly on his already swollen bruise. I watch as Craig reels back, falling backwards onto the trapdoor. It collapses under his weight. It doesn't matter. He's on his feet again, swiping Stan's legs out from under him. My friend falls onto his back with a painful sounding thump. Craig straddles him, driving his fists directly into Stan's face.

Some of the customers are getting up. A few are looking at me accusingly. I glare back. He's my friend, so I should be trying to break up the fight, right? Wrong. One of the bar backs is looking at the ruins of the trapdoor mournfully, but he isn't trying to stop it. He looks rightfully frightened of his boss, who is going berserk to be fair. I'm just about to try to pull him off Stan when a loud jangling at the door diverts my attention. All I see is a mass of blue; a whale in a cop uniform. Cartman lunges forward, yanking Craig off Stan with an 'Aye!'

Craig's struggling forward, and Stan's scrambling to his feet, clutching his cheekbone and shooting Craig a baleful glare. He tackles the two boys against the bar, but Cartman holds an arm between them.

"What do you think you two pansies are doing?" He winces as Stan pulls at his arm, "Aye! I said Aye! Respect my authoritah!"

Craig's eyes meet Stan's. They reach an accord. Suddenly they've both turned on Cartman, and they're punching and kicking like feral dogs, until the fat boy is on the ground too. Normally I'd jump at any chance to see Cartman injured, but he's in his cop uniform. I see the lady in red pull out a cell phone. Shit. She's going to call the real authorities.

Now that Cartman's down for the count, Stan and Craig turn back to each other, breathing hard. Stan's got a hand wound in the other boy's hair, yanking hard, and he's driving his fist into Craig's stomach. After each punch Craig's gasping, "Keep it up bitch. I'm not afraid of you."

He's swinging wildly, trying to push Stan away. I don't envy him the job. Craig may have been tough back in high school, but Stan was the baseball team's star pitcher. He packs a lot of power, especially in his pitching arm. I've been on the receiving end of enough of his punches to know he definitely hits harder than the average dude.

With all the drive that made him such a star, he takes Craig down. Now he's the one who's straddling him, hissing venomously, "You should be."

Stan starts beating the shit out of Craig, barraging his abdomen, his shoulders, his neck, and his face. I don't even think he's looking as he hits, just running on pure blind rage.

Cartman's whimpering on the floor, and I can hear static voices over his walkie talkie. Sirens sound off in the distance.

Okay. Fine. Craig's covered in black and blue marks, and I realize that maybe staying out of it isn't an option anymore. I stomp forward, taking hold of Stan's shoulders and dragging him back. He's struggling against me, escaping my grasp. He turns on me, and swings blindly. I receive a fist right to the ribs, and all the breath in my lungs whooshes away.

Now he's looking at me in abject terror, "Shit! Kyle. I didn't mean-"

When I hit, I don't give him the choice of getting back up. My knuckles pound into his cheekbone, and I watch as he drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"That is enough!" I command, furious. Everyone in the bar is looking at me. I see Cartman regaining his sensibilities, although he's still whimpering slightly. He never had a head for pain. My ribs are tender now, but you don't see me acting like a little bitch about it.

"This fight stops here," I announce clearly, meeting not only Craig and Stan's eyes, but every customer who hasn't left and will look at me.

"I'm not scared of you," I look down and tell Stan, breathing hard, "And I never will be."

He does the only thing he knows how to do at this point, which is leap to his feet wildly and swing straight towards my stomach. I dodge it, but his knuckles graze by my ribs again. I wince. Oh yeah. That's definitely going to bruise now. Ducking down as my super best friend prepares another punch, I kick my leg out into his shin. He stumbles forward, falling to his knees. I fall on top of him, straddling his waist.

"I'm. Not. Scared. Of. You," I enunciate, taking hold of his wrists.

Stan glares up at me with grudging respect in his eyes. He knows I'm telling the truth.

He falls back against the cold stone of the floor, surrendering to me.

"Shit, Broflovski," Craig hisses in pain, "Couldn't you have done that sooner? My bar's a wreck."

"That's what you get for starting a fight, douchebag," I mutter back. I can feel Stan's breathing between my thighs. His pulse is slowing. He's clutching his eye. I don't know if it was from me or Craig, or a combination of our fists of fury, but he's not going to be looking so hot tomorrow. Wendy's probably going to kill him.

"Guys," Cartman wheezes, "Denver PD is going to be here in a minute. You might want to get out of here."

The lady in red is shooting Cartman a murderous look. I guess she was kind of proud to be doing her civic duty when she called the cops. If there aren't perps, she doesn't get to be a hero.

I don't fucking care. I untangle myself from Stan, finding my feet, and then helping him up. Avoiding Cartman's gaze I mutter a thanks. Even now, I still can't look at him straight.

"You're a cock-blocking son of a bitch," Stan tells Craig, who's still sprawled on the ground, glaring up at him with a look full of more hate than I ever knew he could muster. He musters up his stuff and then marches away with as much dignity as he can, the swelling in his eye mirroring Craig's. I watch the entry door swing back, his silhouette disappearing into the dark street.

I don't follow. Instead I tell the boy on the floor sadly, "Don't worry. He'll get over it."

The dark haired boy shakes his head, dry humor in his eyes, "Not when it comes to you, he won't."

"You didn't cock block him. I was never planning on…"

Craig holds up a hand, "Careful what you say. You never know when you'll have a change of heart."

"Not about this, I won't," I reply firmly.

"We'll see."

I find Stan waiting for me a block away. We made it out of Craig's bar just in time. The cops are practically running into the thing now. I can see their shiny badges from here. They've got their guns drawn. I hope Craig and Cartman can think up something to say.

"You're such a dick," I tell Stan.

"I know," he replies. He even has the grace to look ashamed.

"Why'd you freak out?"

"I can't stand that he's letting his own damned ego get in the way of being with Token. I mean, the guy asked him to wait, but it's Token Black. He's serious when it comes to stuff like this. I doubt it's just some test for Craig. I don't know the reason, but I know there has to be one."

I think of Token, who was always so solemn and reserved in school. When Craig went rebel without a clue, Token was the only one who really stuck by his side. Even Clyde wouldn't put up with his hissy fits at that point, but I think Clyde was just scared of Craig macking on his girls. Token was always intensely loyal. Stan's right. There's got to be some reason he would make Craig wait, other than a test. Hell, maybe he's just trying to sort out his feelings. I can understand that.

"You still shouldn't have gone ballistic."

"He insulted you."

"He didn't," I correct, "I would have beaten his ass for that. He insulted how you feel about me."

"Same thing."

"Not to me," I frown, "Maybe we should just forget about everything."

Stan squeaks, "Everything? Even you considering…?"

"Yeah."

My wrist suddenly finds itself wrapped in Stan's possessive grip. His palm is warm, calloused. My skin tingles where he touches it, "No."

"No? This isn't a multiple choice test. You don't get to just say no."

"I do. I am. Give me another chance."

"Somehow I think you've been getting way too many chances lately."

He grimaces, cobalt eyes searching out my own, "That might be true. Still."

I'm going to regret this.

"Okay."

His hand is still wrapped around my wrist. I look at it pointedly, but he doesn't let go. Instead he says, "I let you say I was bi, before. I'm not, you know."

"So you are gay?"

"I'm not gay, either, damnit."

The atmosphere shifts. His eyes are tired, but I can sense he hasn't got any fight left in him. So I tease, "You just wanna bone me?"

Seriously, he replies, "No, I love you."

I'm not done. With a mischievous smile, I query, "But you like banging Craig?"

"Damnit, Kyle!"

His shout was half strangled by a laugh. It bubbles out of him, unable to be contained any longer. And now I'm laughing too. We're sagging against a light post, howling like idiots. I feel him lean into me, shaking with mirth, his arms wrapping around me. I support his weight, holding him up, still laughing. We walk like that, back to our cars. In between spastic bouts of laughter, we recount how we totally whooped each other's asses.

Oddly enough, things sort of go back to normal after that.


	14. I Got An Arsenal, An Infintry, I'm Built For This Mentally

"Do you remember that time that Kenny died of syphilis?"

Stan glares at me, "That stopped being so amusing after I contracted it."

Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Oops. I shrug and fall back on Stan's bed. It's a nice bed. King sized, with a big blue and gold comforter, and sheets with a high thread count. Not that I know anything about thread counts. Okay, maybe a little, but don't tell anyone. My mother's a bed sheet Nazi. She made sure we only got the best growing up.

"Did you contract it here?" I ask, wrinkling my nose and poking one of his pillows, "Should I be worried?"

Stan frowns at me. Apparently syphilis is not okay to joke about.

A thought trickles absently through my mind. I wonder how he and Wendy are doing. I wonder if he still…for lack of a less faggy way to phrase it, I wonder if he still makes love to her. Here. On this bed. Where I've got my face buried in the comforter, and possible jizz stains.

Sick, dude.

I sit back up, "You know, when you invited me over to spend time together, I figured that we'd be doing something other than moping around your apartment."

His eyes crinkle at the edges when he makes a face. It's cute, really.

"I was just getting to that. Kenny's St. Patrick's Day party is in like, four hours, right? So I was thinking that we could kill the time by watching a movie."

I raise an eyebrow. This is his great idea?

"Dude, I don't want to shell out ten bucks to go see some lame ass blockbuster shit."

He looks hurt. I watch him run a hand through his thick, dark hair, sigh and say, "No, man. I meant on my TV. I rented a bunch. We could make popcorn…I mean, if you think my idea sucks…"

"Oh. Uh. It- it doesn't suck," I say to the ceiling, not really sure what else to do. I mean okay, it's not the most original of ideas, but why is he getting so defensive of it?

We set up his DVD player with some nineties slasher flick that's probably going to blow. Popping popcorn's making the whole kitchen smell like melted butter. I settle myself on his couch. It's hard to get comfortable what with my bruised ribs and everything. Gee, now who do I have to thank for that? I'm not too chuffed about it though. At least my bruises can be hidden. Stan's had to take a lot of shit from his coworkers because of his lovely black and blues. In turn, I've taken the brunt of his annoyance over it. He should just feel lucky I didn't rearrange his face, although with the purple swelling around his eye, it looks like he just went through some sort of cheekbone reconstruction.

For some reason I can't get my mind off of whether or not Stan and Wendy are still doing it. Do they bang like animals? What's their favorite position? Do they do it here, on this very sofa?

What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I going mental? Those are probably more appropriate questions.

We watch the FBI warning roll by. It's one of those DVDs where you can't skip the intros. Sneaky bastards.

Conversation. Conversation is a good thing. It's a good way to take my mind off whether or not Stan likes foreplay.

I must be coming down with something. It's the only explanation for the graphic thoughts scarring my brain. I press the back of my hand against my cheek. No fever. Somehow I'm not surprised.

"Where's Shelley? I thought she was home this week. I figured you wouldn't be able to hang."

"Free pass today," Stan smiles that killer smile of his, "I think she's trying out for that Bollywood movie their filming in town square."

"The one where they keep singing about cheese and handcuffs? And that one guy is wearing really tight jeans and smoking all the time?"

Stan raises an eyebrow, "Cheese and handcuffs?"

"That's what it sounds like. I don't speak Hindi."

"O-kay then. Well, yeah, that's the one. I hope she makes it. It would be hilarious to see her trying to dance in some foreign film."

"Those girls aren't wearing much," I point out, having already titillated myself a few times by walking by the square just to catch a glimpse of the girls' skimpy outfits, "Are your parents okay with it?"

"I think my mom's trying out too," Stan sighs, "And when I asked why, they told me-"

He pauses and readies his mock-mother voice, "It's so cultural!"

The microwave beeps. Stan excuses himself to get the popcorn, and I hear him rattling around in the kitchen; the clatter of the bowl he grabs, the crinkle of the bag as he empties it. I feel the couch cushion give way under my butt as he makes himself comfortable beside me. He's close. Maybe a little too close.

I glare at him. He shrugs innocently and says, "How else are we going to share?"

Yeah. Okay. That makes sense. I lean back, and Stan uses the remote to select 'play' from the DVD menu. Creepy piano music trickles into the room as the screen goes dark before the credits start.

I spend about a good hour forgetting my problems in a world full of blood and perky breasts. The movie's not really scary, just gross. Occasionally Stan and I make some kind of crude comment, mocking the film's…well, everything. There's just so much to make fun of.

A sampling of our commentary follows:

"You know the only reason he wants to kill all these people is because that one chick didn't give him any,"

And…

"Dude, do you know what we could do with that much pot?"

And…

"She just spreads her legs for everyone, doesn't she?"

And…

"That's okay; you don't need that part to live. Agh, maybe you need that one."

And…

"Oh man. He's going to kill you now. You totally just stole some of his weed."

And…

"That's so wrong. Necrophilia is baaaad, Mr. Serial Killer. Dude, do you think anyone's ever tried to get off with Kenny's body when he's dead?"

Yeah. We aren't really intellectual about our critiques.

So the movie's nearing the end. At least I assume it is, since most everybody's died except the nubile young virgin. I reach into the popcorn bowl, my hand scraping bottom just around the same time that Stan decides to do the same. His fingertips brush over my knuckles, and I can hardly hold back the gasp that bubbles up from my throat. It wasn't electric or anything like that. It's just I hadn't expected…I hadn't thought…I just hadn't been prepared, okay? Alright? Good enough for you? Fuck.

I can't concentrate on the rest of the movie. When the end comes, I don't even know whether the virgin died.

Maybe I'll skip Kenny's party. I check my forehead, ignoring my still tingling skin.

I still don't feel feverish.

* * *

 

Kenny's St. Patrick's Day party is a tradition spanning back…all of this year. Actually, this is the first time he's thrown the bash, but Kenny's notorious for parties, so there's no lack of people crowded into his apartment. He shelled out for three kegs. Three. Do you know how much drinking it takes to polish off three kegs, not to mention the handles lining his glossy linoleum countertop? I'll tell you. Enough to get every person in here wasted, as well as half of Colorado.

I'm in heaven.

That sounds like something an alcoholic would say. I'm not an alcoholic. It's just been a very long week. Long and torturous.

I'm sitting on Kenny's couch, cradling a red cup full of something sickly sweet and a bag of sour cream and onion chips on my lap. Funny how I don't have dirty thoughts about what shenanigans Kenny gets up to on his couch. I'm not going to think about that. I'm going to think about that cute blonde standing near the keg in the corner, and the way her legs just don't seem to stop. Yeah. There's my happy place.

Am I allowed to be having thoughts about other girls when my date with Red's tomorrow? It's not like we're going to make a habit out of it or anything. I'm not her boyfriend. What the hell am I thinking? She's a stripper, she won't care.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I imagine my mother saying, 'Now Bubbalah, strippers have feelings too.' I wonder if my mom's ever tried to support some cause for strippers. Do they have a union for that sort of thing? The Union of Strippers? Or, excuse me, Exotic Dancers?

I see Stan, ever the chivalrous knight, standing in the kitchen and mixing Wendy a drink. Wendy, his girlfriend. Wendy, the girl he makes love to on the couch where I sat. Maybe.

I think I need to shoot myself in the head. It's the only way to make the thoughts go away. Bad, wicked thoughts.

I take a long chug out of my cup, surprising myself when seconds later I come up empty. No more liquor? Wow. That was some strong shit, too. I just drank it down like water. I guess I should get some more.

This gives me the opportunity to spring up and walk over to Stan and Wendy. They're talking. She's giggling. Her lips are painted candy apple red, like a street prostitute. She's wearing another one of those cleavage baring shirts, and a pair of skin tight jeans that must have been sewn on. With her curves, she looks stunning. I resent her for it, and I don't know why.

Stan's idea of party casual is a pair of brown cords, tight in places that I'm trying to keep my eyes away from, and loose down near his ankles. He's got on a black band t-shirt. I've never heard of the band, and I've never liked him in black. It brings back memories of all those emo-pussy phases he used to go through every time he got dumped by a girl. Um, I mean, those 'sensitive phases'. Right. At least the color matches his bruises.

Kenny stalks up, takes a look at my empty cup, snatches it from me, and hands me his. He then proceeds to fill the cup he stole with beer and chug it all down in barely five seconds flat. Following this, he slings an arm around Stan's neck and burps, "What's going on guys? Feeling a little Irish yet?"

He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated way.

"You're disgusting, McCormick," Wendy wrinkles her nose. His belch did kind of smell.

"Kyle, you're not drinking."

I frown at him. He stares back, unblinking. I wave the cup he handed to me in front of his face. He doesn't bat an eyelash.

Sighing, I start downing the cup. That's when he smiles. Cocky asshole.

"When this party is over, nobody better be able to see straight," he crows, planting a kiss on Stan's cheek. The dark haired boy scowls at him, looking like he's trying quite hard not to regurgitate whatever he just swallowed. Wendy just crosses her arms and gives Kenny a sour look.

I, on the other hand, am attempting to suppress a viper quick attack of venom coursing through my veins. I want to shove Kenny away from Stan. Or maybe I want to shove Stan away from Kenny. I'm not sure. All I know is that I don't like them touching like that. I don't like Kenny kissing Stan. I don't…I don't know what the hell's wrong with me.

I finish my drink, crushing the cup and throwing it on Kenny's floor. Time to go talk to that hot blonde.

Two hours later, the blonde's disappeared and I'm on the couch again, crushed between Kenny and Stan. Kenny's belting out some lilting Irish lullaby. He's got the voice of an angel. Those singing lessons his parents paid for back in grade school really paid off.

The party's still in full swing, but nobody seems to be taking note of us. I saw Bebe earlier, waltzing by in some glitzy little pink number, Butters hot on her heels. I think they stayed just long enough to pilfer a handle of Stoli and then scarpered into Kenny's bedroom.

At least my fascination with how other people get it on doesn't extend to them. I don't think I'd be able to ever gouge the image of Bebe and Butters getting all sweaty and horizontal out of my brain if it appeared.

There've been a couple of other familiar faces in the throng of the party, but the most I've gotten from anyone is a 'hi' and 'is the keg tapped out yet?' It doesn't matter. I caught up with everyone I wanted to at the informal reunion a few weeks back.

Now Kenny's singing some ballad about the IRA.

"Dude," I groan, shifting against him. Stan's head falls into my lap, his breath hot on my thigh, even through the denim of my artfully torn jeans. I want Wendy to come cart him off, but she left half an hour ago for work, giving Stan a chaste goodbye kiss and assessing that we looked like two peas in a pod. That was before Kenny decided to serenade us with songs about revolutionaries.

"Dude," I try again, ignoring the warmth on my leg, "I don't think its PC to sing about the IRA at a St. Patrick's Day party."

"Why not?" Kenny sing songs back, "Ireland's free, I'm free, you're free, everyone's free! You know what we're free to do? Drink! Let's get blitzed!"

Some guy whoops in agreement, and Kenny proceeds to convince him to muster us up another round of drinks. Just what we need. I try to shift Stan's head on my lap, but all that succeeds in doing is putting his mouth closer to my cock. Which is not where I want his mouth.

My package decides to disagree, twitching half-heartedly as he sighs comfortably and hugs his arms around my waist.

Oh, god. Could he just stop BREATHING already? My hormones can't take this.

Not that I am in any way attracted to Stan. It's just…I'm a guy, and there's a face in my crotch. I'm sorry. I challenge anyone to resist that kind of temptation.

Maybe that's not a good argument.

Shut up.

I command my dick to stop reacting. Yeah, that's right. I'm in control here.

Oops. Not so much.

Please?

I glance down. Stan's head is there, his hair all glossy and black as a raven's wing. In my lap. Near my…

I'm not gay.

I'm not.

I'm just drunk as fuck. Yeah. That's a good excuse.

Stan shifts again, and I groan. He's definitely got something hard poking him in the cheek now, and I'm thinking he might be faking this alcohol induced nap, because it can't be comfortable to have my boner rubbing up against his bruises. I can't believe I actually just made it through that thought coherently. Sick with myself, I jump to my feet, letting Stan's head fall hard against the cushions. He moans slightly, but doesn't wake up. I guess I was wrong about him faking it.

Great. So I just got turned on by a sleeping guy. A completely innocent, perfectly asleep guy.

Time to find the blonde again. Maybe she'll forgive me for calling her love handles cute.

* * *

 

Kenny got his wish. I woke up this morning with my mouth tasting like stale vomit, feeling so light headed and dizzy that I could barely make it down the stairs for breakfast. My little brother spent the whole of it gushing about some hockey team, while I wished I could drown him in his cereal bowl just so the noise would go away.

I smelled like a brewery, and my mom noticed. She spent most of the morning giving me dark looks, but I managed to escape a lecture on being a corrupt, base creature. Her disappointment has been emanating off her in waves, but I'm kind of used to it by now. I've been putting up with her 'my son, the college flunkout' looks for months now. I can take her 'my son, the depraved sodomite' looks. Not that I've been doing any sodomizing. Or been sodomized in return, thank you very much.

It's okay. I'm ready to swear off inebriation forever with this hangover. It's nearly time for my date, and I still haven't been able to shake the pounding headache, although my stomach doesn't feel nearly as rebellious as it did this morning.

Now I'm hoping for a night of heterosexual debauchery, minus the stimulants.

I walk into the kitchen, which is scorching hot from the meal my mother's been preparing for some business dinner my dad's having. It's so bright. Why do lights have to be so bright?

"Bubhie," mom glances up, surprised, "Do you need something?"

"Aspirin," I moan, ignoring the disapproving look she casts me. What? Am I supposed to pretend I don't know that she doesn't know that I spent my night worshipping the porcelain gods?

She purses her lips and doesn't say anything. I wonder if those lines near her mouth have always been there. I wonder if those creases in her forehead are old, or if I put them there. Is she aging so fast because I'm an epic screw up, or has this progression been going on in secret for years, and it's only just starting to show?

I clear my throat and take a seat at the kitchen table, announcing, "So…I have a date."

She whirls towards me, all traces of displeasure replaced with a mixture of surprise and delight.

"Kyle, that's wonderful!"

Yeah, I'm excited too. I've got a date.

With a girl.

See, mom thinks I'm a good hetero. She didn't ask what gender the person I have a date with is. The thought probably didn't even cross her mind.

Why is it crossing mine?

"Yeah," I say, and she hurries over to take a seat across from me, her eyes urging me to tell her all about it. I decide to leave out the part about Red's job, "With a girl from high school."

"Is she nice? Pretty? What does she do?"

She's got a nice mouth. Bombastic ass. Dancer. Exotic.

"Uhm, yeah."

She accepts that as a response to all three. That's my mom. Ever supportive. She's just happy that I'm starting to settle back into living in South Park. Now I have a job, friends, and a girl? It's the trifecta in a Jewish mother's eyes.

My mom's hand covers mine, and she smiles, kindly. I can tell she's proud. Her palm is warm. Kind of sweaty, actually. It would be; she's been bustling around the kitchen nonstop for the past three hours. But something is off about this. I think of Stan. I think of his fingers touching my hand, ever so lightly, and how freaked out it made me.

…Because his touch hadn't felt JUST warm. His fingertips had touched my hand, and sure, okay, it had gone straight to my dick. But it had also gone straight to my toes, to my heart. It had given me tingles.

My jaw goes slack. I can tell my sudden lack of expression is putting off my mom, who withdraws her touch. I don't care.

Oh, sweet lord.

Why am I realizing this now? My date with Red's in half an hour.

I'M NOT GAY.

I can't be.


	15. And His Eyes Were Glowing Like Two Lit Cigarettes

Red looks hot. Like fanfuckingtastic. I’ve never really understood women’s clothes, what with all the buttons and laces and zippers and totally unnecessary accessories, but I’m silently thanking whatever designer thought it would be a good idea to create this purple skintight masterpiece. It has a surprisingly high neckline for a stripper, which I can tell my mother totally approves of, and there’s a cutout back that lets my eyes follow the sharp lines of her shoulder blades all the way down to that curve that disappears into her pert little ass. Nice. Plus her legs might as well be skyscrapers for how long they look. Dancing has done her good.

I sound like a chauvinist pig, but really, most guys are. We just don’t voice these thoughts out loud.

 I act like the perfect gentleman, however, escorting her to mom’s car and even going so far as to open the door for her. See, chivalry? I’m behaving myself.

We drive to the fanciest restaurant in South Park, which isn’t really saying much. It’s called Billy Bob’s Steakhouse. Yeah.

I hate to say it, but in the dark of my car Red’s utter hotness is kind of lost on me. My mind’s back on the problem that’s plagued me since last night. Can I really be gay? I mean, I think Red looks hot enough to fuck on the side of the road, so I guess that would make me bisexual? Either way, that means I want to have my cock sucked by a guy, and that is ‘gay’ no matter which way you cut it. I imagine Stan’s head in my lap the way it was at the party, except in my imagination, his mouth is involved.

Inwardly, I groan. That shouldn’t be such an arousing image.

Really though? Am I a raging homosexual? Is it possible to have four close friends turn completely and utterly gay? Were we always destined to turn out this way, or was it all the celebrities who took up residence in our closets that made us thus?

I’ve never been this confused in my entire life. I’m supposed to be the smart one. I’m supposed to have everything figured out.

Hell, I’m supposed to have a bachelor’s degree, but that didn’t happen, now did it?

“Kyle,” Red says in her vibrant voice, and I flick my eyes towards her. She’s got this lipstick on in this muted red, like rum raisin or something. I imagine how those lips would look around my dick, and at least I get the same response I did when I thought about Stan. That has to mean something, right?

I let myself get drawn into a conversation with her. For an exotic dancer, she’s surprisingly intelligent. She almost manages to make me forget my quandary by the time we pull into the parking lot of Billy Bob’s. Almost.

It says a lot about Red that she thinks this counts as ‘fine fare’. If I took a girl from New England here, they’d probably steal my car keys and scram. I offered to take Red to Denver to one of the nicer bistros, but she turned it down. She has work in the morning.

I guess she’s as much of a redneck as I am, because she doesn’t seem to mind the place. She just smiles her lush, secretive smile and shimmies her hips a bit as she struts to the door. I find myself watching her go, which is probably what she expects.

Inside’s better than outside, which is pretty much a log cabin. The interior of the steakhouse is painted in low-key earth tones, and the lighting’s so dim that I have to watch my feet as we’re escorted to our table by some guy in a penguin suit. It’s all candlelight and wall sconces. I guess it’s romantic, but I’m one of those people who never saw what was romantic about darkness. All it does is make everything dreamy and airbrushed so that you can pretend whoever you’re with is someone else. I don’t like the unreality of it; it feels like a lie.

Just to prove my point, Red leans across the table from me and asks in a sultry voice, “Do you want to order some wine?”

Her face is half shadows, and from here it looks like she doesn’t have a single blemish. Even the freckles on her nose are hidden beneath the pale sheen of her foundation and her eyes dance in the tiny, flickering flame of the candle in the center of the table. She looks so perfect, it’s sickening. I feel lied to, and I know it’s not her fault. It’s the restaurant’s for trying to force this idealistic image of romance on me.

The neckline of her dress also sags a little as she leans, giving me a bird’s eye view of her impressive cleavage. I already know what she’s got to offer on account of my visits to her club, but that was an entirely different scenario. I wonder if she plans on giving me my own personal lap dance later. A guy can dream, right?

“Kyle?” she prompts, and I realize I zoned out for a minute there.

What? Oh yeah. Wine. Eurgh. I guess if I have no other choice.

“Sure,” I flash her the most winning smile I can muster and scan the wine list she hands me. They’ve got some great bourbon at this place on the cheap, but I’m cornered into buying a sweet, dry merlot. When the waiter serves it up, chilled, I watch her drink. Her lips are stained even darker, and her lipstick sticks to the rim of the glass. I always hated lipstick. Sure, it makes a girl’s lips look like they belong in my nether region, but inevitably the stuff smears everywhere, making me feel gross post kiss. I don’t even want to mention how it looks when it gets all over my junk. Lip-gloss is even worse.

Red engages me in some conversation about politics, which is normally a big first date no-no. She’s extremely enthused about the subject while I couldn’t care less. My mother’s enough of a political activist that I’ve been so firmly deterred from the entire idea of getting involved that she’s lucky I take the time to vote. Which I do mostly because I’m scared she’ll kill me otherwise. I keep mum about that though, letting Red ramble on and on about the upcoming mayoral elections.

Moses. Aren’t strippers supposed to be dumb?

I let my mind wander to Stan. I think about the way his dark hair falls into his eyes, and that shifty look he gets when he’s lying but trying to look like he’s not. I think about the way his long legs looked in those brown cords last night and how hot Kenny’s hick trucker hat had been on him that one time. I think about Kenny in those ripped jeans he likes, and how nice his muscles are in those wife beaters he wears. I think about the oil stains on his cheeks when he works and the fact that his teeth are cigarette stained but his smile remains stunning. I think about Stan’s smile, and then his ass, and how this would be so much easier if he stopped strutting around like a fucking cock tease and just let me…

…  
I’m sorry, I’m really too horrified with that thought to continue it.

“Kyle, are you paying attention to me?” Red’s voice breaks through my reverie. We’re eating dessert now, and I’m so surprised because I don’t even remember finishing my meal or ordering. There’s this chocolate confection in the middle of the table, and Red’s tonguing the fork like she expects an audience to watch and be jealous. Maybe she does.

I’m that audience. I shake the dumb thoughts from my head and focus on the pink of her tongue and the red of her lips, and suddenly I can’t even wait until she finishes to get out of this place and haul her back into my car.

She knows it, too. She kicks off her heels under the table and her foot’s creeping up my leg. Her toes are cold but that doesn’t matter once she reaches the crook of my knee and starts inching up my thigh. I’m desperate for some action. Maybe I’m just desperate.

Her foot nears my balls, and the criminal things she’s doing to that fork with her mouth make me stop thinking altogether. As soon as I’ve signed off half my paycheck on the bill, she’s dragging me by the arm back out into mom’s Kia. She opens the back seat and shoves me inside. I fall back against the leather, my head hitting the seat with a soft ‘oomph’. Then she’s straddling me, and that skintight dress is apparently not tight enough to keep from riding up her thighs, milk white in the moonlight. There are other cars parked all around us, but she doesn’t seem to care.

I don’t either.

Her mouth covers mine, urgent and demanding. That rum raisin lipstick is probably all over my chin. And she’s rubbing her body up and down my hips and oh Jesus, I haven’t felt this fucking good in such a long time. Every thought that’s been killing me for the last few weeks has vanished into thin air. How could I ever have thought that I liked guys when I can feel her warm and ready through the cloth of my slacks and the thin barrier of her underwear?              

I lean into her embrace, kissing her back whole heartedly. My fingers press into her hips as she grinds herself into me.

It feels amazing.

And then I stop.

What am I doing?

Why am I questioning it?

Kissing her is as nice as kissing any of the other girls I have in the past, but that’s all it is; nice. I mean sure, I’m horny as all get out, and the way she keeps thrusting her pelvis against me is kind of making it hard to think right now, but the kiss is mediocre at best and fuck me, why am I even thinking about this right now?

My mind is racing. I think of Cartman’s confession. Ermmmm, she’s trailing her fingers down my chest. I think of Kenny’s offer. Mmm, she’s sucking hard on my neck. I think of the brief, accidental brush of hands Stan and I had shared. Her mouth is back full force.

And suddenly I’m pushing her roughly away. She nearly falls out the still open car door.

“What the fuck, Kyle?”

I’m panting and hard and I hate myself, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?” she demands, exasperated, “It’s not like I’m luring you into my panties or anything. It’s a fucking goodnight kiss.”

Oh, really? It felt like she was begging me to penetrate her, but I’ll leave it.

“I know,” I feel my temper start to rise, and I know the tone of my voice has suddenly gone patronizing, like I’m explaining to a child, “But I still can’t do this.”

She scrutinizes me, shakes her head, and mutters, “I knew you were a fag.”

She sits silently beside me as I drive until we reach her car, parked outside my house. The second we get there she scrambles out, slams the door, and storms away, her tires squealing as she burns rubber just to get far from me.

Her words hit me full force, mixing in with the thoughts I had when I stopped the kiss.

She might be right.

Goddamnit. 


	16. And What Good Is Feelin' If My Hands Aren't Touchin' You

Cigarettes. What is there to say about cigarettes? They’re nasty. They give you lung cancer. They make your teeth yellow and your fingertips smell like ash, and few people find the taste of them appealing when you kiss.

They also calm me the fuck down. Since I broke my promise already to Stan, and he knows it, I figure that I’m completely allowed to continue on with this bad habit. In moderation, of course. However, I feel that finding out I’m secretly into gay sex means I’m entitled to giving into a vice.

“Okay, dude, after you inhale, you have to exhale unless you want to suffocate,” Kenny observes with mild panic, watching me suck down a drag without letting up. He’s worried. He can tell something’s up, but I haven’t told him about my date with Red yet. I just turned up at his apartment and convinced him to take a walk under the stars with me. His blond hair looks like a halo around his head, like star-shine at night and sunlight in the day. Sometimes I think Kenny really is an angel, albeit a perverted, homosexual one. He’s the first person I thought of visiting, and I wonder what that means. Am I in love with Kenny? Do I want to fuck him? Am I just attracted to him?

I decide all it means is that I consider him a friend and he’s the only person I know for sure is up to wandering South Park at one in the morning. Stan was my first choice, but I figured he’d be sleeping. Plus I’m a little wary of what telling Stan about my revelation will mean. I don’t want him to misconstrue it. I still have like three weeks till our deal is up, and I don’t want him to get his hopes up until I’m absolutely positive about things.

How embarrassing. I guaranteed Stan that my feelings wouldn’t change, and within a week I decide that I’m hot for the male form. This has got to be the ultimate let down. I thought I knew myself better. Then again, no one had ever introduced the idea of me being gay before, so I’d never really considered it an option.

Actually, I’ve had nearly two and a half months to stew over it since Cartman kissed me in the library, so I guess I shouldn’t be talking about how ‘sudden’ it is.

I finally blow at all the smoke I’ve been holding in, and I can see Kenny’s relieved smile. He must have thought I was planning on asphyxiating myself.

Somehow, this whole thing is fucked up, but it doesn’t feel like the end of the world.

I guess it doesn’t change anything, actually. I still like girls. I don’t have to date dudes. I just…want to. I want to try it out. Hunh. Weird, voicing it, even though it wasn’t out loud.

In fact, it doesn’t even mean anything for my agreement with Stan. I haven’t suddenly decided I love him. It’s the same as it is with Kenny. I know I’m attracted to him, but I don’t know if that means I need to pin him down and ravish him or if it even means anything at all.

That’s got to be my next step then; figuring out how I feel about Kenny, about Stan, and about Cartman. Dude, I’m pretty sure I know how I feel about the fatass. I just have to talk to him. I’m not looking forward to it.

I take a deep breath and say, “Kenny, I dig guys.”

I’ll give him credit. All he does is suck in a surprised breath and reply, “Welcome to the team.”

“I like girls too,” I warn.

Kenny frowns, “I don’t trust bisexuals.”

“Why not?”

“They’re just greedy.”

“Says the boy who considers having sex with a woman as long as he can close his eyes and pretend she’s a man.”

“Someone has to take care of my everlasting libido.”

“Gross, dude.”

He smiles at me. I like this. I like that his footsteps are in step with mine, and that even though I just made this huge confession to him, he’s just accepting it. There’s no pressure. He already offered himself up, and he’s not going to push it.

It would be so easy to experiment with him. But he’s my friend, not a lab rat. And there’s something else, something more. Kenny likes me, but…I remember when I first met up with him again, and I saw that look in his eye. That ‘let-me-out-of-here-NOW’ look that I recognized from myself, right before I graduated high school. Kenny hates being in South Park. Even with his job and his apartment, he hates it. I think he might even hate himself a little bit. He said Stan had sort of left off talking to him, that they’d drifted apart. And I know Cartman is busy a lot with his dispatch job. I’d heard from Craig that he and Kenny hung out sometimes, but other than that, I wonder…does Kenny have any other friends? I’m worried that if I try something with him, he’ll take it out of context. Even if he acknowledges it as a one off, I think maybe a wham-bam-thank-you-sir kind of thing would screw him up if it was with me. I don’t want to ruin Kenny. He doesn’t deserve to be fucked with. He deserves love, and I know he’s starved for it.

Okay. So no screwing Kenny’s brains out. That’s a shame. I recall our make out session on the kitchen table, and something stirs down under just from the memory.

He smiles at me, his breath coming out foggy as cigarette smoke, even though he hasn’t taken a puff. This town is too damned cold for its own good.

One of these days, I’ll sit down and have a real talk with Kenny. Not tonight, though. Tonight I just want to walk with him, our steps echoing in perfect harmony. I’m going to hold onto this peace for as long as I can.

* * *

 

I’m on my lunch break. I find Cartman sitting behind a wooden desk, a headset attached to his ear, a plateful of doughnuts on his lap. It took me three days, but I’ve finally gathered up the courage to talk to him.

“Want to get lunch?” I ask.

He gives me this devil-may-care grin, and I shiver inwardly. If this goes wrong, there’s every possibility that I’ll be an ingredient in the next batch of chili he makes.

I pray to Moses it won’t go wrong.

We head over to the bistro I had originally planned to take Red’s. It’s right across the street from Craig’s bar. Craig’s actually the one who recommended it. He said the food there was absolutely fucking amazing, and if there’s any way to soften a blow to Cartman’s ego, it’s with yummy food.

What? Hey, we don’t call him fatass for nothing.

After we’re seated at the heated patio of the restaurant, I decide to tackle my dilemma head on. I scoot my metal chair closer to Cartman with an ear shattering screeching noise. He stares at me like I’m stupid, obviously wondering why I feel the need to invade his personal bubble.

And then I kiss him, chastely.

When I pull back, he’s staring at me in wide eyed astonishment. Meanwhile, me? I felt nothing. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to make this go any easier.

“What the hell was that, Jew?”

I frown.

“I know your intelligence is below average, but I figured even you would know what a kiss is. Oh wait, your mom is a whore. Isn’t kissing against the rules?”

“That’s for prostitutes,” he snaps, “And leave my mom out of this. Did you invite me out to lunch just so you could molest me?”

I just scowl at him, letting a busboy come and fill our water glasses. As soon as the poor little man evacuates the scene, I calmly take a sip of my water. Cartman’s dark eyes are on me the entire time.

Suddenly his face lights up, “Oh, I get it! Why Kahl, you’ve come round to my charm.”

Aw. Awwwwww. Why me? Groaning, I attempt to think of a way to go about this.

“Um, not exactly.”

“Then what? You either like me, or-“ horror crosses Cartman’s face and he yelps, “Did you infect me with something? Is this revenge for that time I gave you AIDS? I swear to god, Kahl, if you transmitted something through your cooties-“

“Shut up, lardbutt,” I retort, trying not to let my temper get the better of me. I’m used to Cartman overreacting. Still, we are in a really nice restaurant, and people are starting to stare.

“I will shut up when you tell me where the antidote is!” Cartman screams.

“Dude, calm down. There is no antidote.”

“You gave me something incurable? That’s low, even for you,” he glares at me.

I sigh, “Cartman, I didn’t infect you with anything.”

I watch him perk up, “You didn’t?”

“No. Dude, I’m not YOU,” I point out, “I wouldn’t stoop that low.”

He relaxes slightly, his shoulders slumping against the back of the chair, “That’s right.”

“Cartman, do you like me?”

“I told you I did, didn’t I?” he asks in a rather annoyed voice. Yet for all the thinking I’ve done, I still haven’t been able to pinpoint what kind of scheme Cartman has going, but there’s still something behind his eyes. I don’t believe him.

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” he protests, “Kahl, I want to make sweet, sweet love to your anus.”

Great. Now people are really staring. He’s still in uniform too, so I can’t even hit him without getting the cops called on me.

I sigh, frustrated, “No, you don’t.”

He gives me a measured look.

“I like you.”

“No you don’t,” my voice is coming out in that irritated growl I get when I know I’m right and the other person’s wrong. My mom calls it my ‘tone’, as in ‘I don’t like that tone, mister’. With Cartman, I don’t care.

I can tell he’s analyzing me now. He’s got that calculating expression, like he’s weighing the odds of letting me in on whatever scam he’s running.

Finally he breathes, “No, I don’t.”

I was right! Ha! There! I knew I was right! Wait. I was right?

“So you don’t like me?” I frown. I should be happier about this.

“I like you,” he objects, “I just don’t necessarily like you that way.”

That way? What are we, five?

Shaking my head, I mutter, “Then why all the pretense?”

He shrugs and says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Because there’s no one else even remotely up to my standards in this town.”

“What are you standards?” I practically groan. This should be good.

“Well,” he straightens in his seat, and I can tell nobody’s ever asked him something like this before. He clears his throat, thinking hard, “Well…no hippies, obviously.”

Of course.

“And?” I prompt.

“They have to live close by. I’m not travelling to see some ho. That’s so gay.”

I don’t comment on the irony of that statement.

“And?”

“They have to like me,” he says with an almost childlike innocence, like the idea of someone liking him is entirely foreign to him. It is Cartman, so it very well might be, for a number of reasons.

“Okay, I’d expect that much.”

“Oh! And they have to be gay.”

“Okay. What else?”

Cartman makes a face like he’s swallowed something awful, “There has to be more?”

I can’t even hide my astonishment, “That’s all? You chose me because I’m not a hippie, I’m nice to you, close by, and you thought I was gay?”

He nods.

God. Cartman is so stupid sometimes.

Well, all the time, really.

“That’s all?” I echo.

“You make it sound easy, Jew. There are hardly any gay kids in our damned town. And don’t give me that you-thought-I-was-gay crap. You are such a ‘mo. I have gaydar, I can sense these things,” he crosses his arms smartly.

“Kenny’s gay,” is the only response I can currently verbalize. I’m not going to say anything at all about his commentary on my sexuality. I only just am figuring that out myself; no need to give Cartman any ammo.

“What are you talking about? Kenneh’s not gay.”

“Yes he is.”

“No he’s not.”

“Yes, he is,” I insist.

 “You’re obviously on crack. Kenneh likes girls,” he emphasizes the last few words just in case I don’t get it.

“Fine. You’re right. Kenny’s bi.”

That’s true. Kind of. At a stretch.

Well, it’s not like it’s going to get back to Kenny anyway.

“What’s bi?”

Moses. My archenemy is a fucking moron.

I explain. Cartman stares at me.

“So all these years,” he finally says in this lost voice, “I could have been after Kenneh instead of a Jew?”

“Pretty much.”

“Goddamnit.”

He stays silent while the waiter arrives with trays stacked high with food. I watch curiously as he stuffs his face, not saying a single word. And then, suddenly…

“Oh God!” Cartman turns his hands up the sky, the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen on him lighting his face, “Thank you Jesus! I knew you wouldn’t let me spend my life pining over a Jewrat.”

“Hey!” I object, but apparently not loud enough to hear over his praising Jesus.

“Hallelujah, lord!” Cartman cries again, attracting attention, “I knew it! I just knew it!”

Oh my sweet Moses. This is mortifying. Now everyone is definitely staring.

“I’ll get right back on my plan to exterminate the filthy Jews, Jesus. I promise!” Cartman yells to the sky. Our waiter is coming towards us with an angry look on his face, and I’m positive he’s going to give us some lecture about anti-Semitism before he kicks us out.

“Cartman! Hey, fucktard! Shut the hell up!” I yelp.

“Quiet, kike, I’m having a conversation with God,” he replies tranquilly.

I’m going to kill him one of these days. I really am.

At least that’s one crisis averted.

The waiter realizes Cartman’s in a cop uniform and decides not to kick us out after all. Once the check is paid (Cartman saddled me with it, obviously), he rushes off muttering something about calling ‘Kenneh’.

I take a huge breath, relieved. I got rid of one of my problems! Hell yeah! I have to restrain myself from pumping my fist in the air. I knew Cartman didn’t like me romantically.

Wait a second.

Did I just send him after Kenny?

Fuck. I dig in my pocket for my cell. I better warn him.

* * *

 

A few days pass.

There’s a blizzard warning in effect, but it needn’t be. If I wanted to know what the weather was like, I’d just look outside at the combination of snow and rain that’s piling up like gray sludge on my doorstep. Yeah, this is a blizzard all right. By the time midnight hits, all this mush is going to turn to even more perpetual ice, and then powdery snow will fall on top of it, masking the fact that the only way to safely get around is going to be on a pair of cross country skis.

Ike’s sleeping over at his friend Fillmore’s. My mom and dad’s at a PTA meeting at Ike’s high school, and I’m worried she’s not going to make it back before the worst of it hits. When a knock sounds off on the door, I rush to it, unexplainably fearing the worst.

I open the door and find myself more shocked that I would have been if there’d been a sad-faced cop telling me there’d been an accident.

The slush is still coming down, cold and wet like an ICEE. Bits of frost cling to his hair, his eyelashes, and his lips. But he’s there. Standing in front of me, looking as good as any male model.

“Stan.”


	17. It's Never Too Late To Redirect Fate

“Hi,” Stan does this absent little finger wag-wave thing that allows me to see the bone-white icy pallor tingeing his joints. He’s got to be freezing. All he’s wearing is a pair of jeans darkened by the damp and a sopping blue and black plaid shirt. Its flannel, and must be absorbing water like a quilted paper towel.

That doesn’t stop me from a stuttering out, “Um. What are you doing here?”

Oops. That was rude. He doesn’t look surprised. I guess he knows that when I’m shocked my mouth tends to run off before my mind can catch up. After twenty three years of friendship, he should.

Stan gives me this rueful look, and I can’t help but notice how sexy the way his bangs have separated into fringe is, dripping rivers over his eyes and cheekbones.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.”

Awkward. I don’t know what to say now, so I let him in. It feels like when I go to visit a girl to apologize for somehow screwing up royally, except in this scenario, I’m the girl, and I have no idea how to act feminine or charmingly inviting. Especially with another guy; particularly when that guy is Stan. My heart does this bass line rhythm that I don’t have time to process, and I step aside to let him in, my eyes glued to the floor.

I give him a dry change of clothes. My jeans are a little too tight and a little too long on him. I’ve got skinnier legs, despite being a bit taller. He’s padding around my dark living room barefoot, with them unbuttoned and showing off the penguin print on his boxers. He’s had those things since like sophomore year of high school, but I never found them quite as intriguing as I do now. My eyes are unconsciously following the little trail of hair starting right beneath his belly button and descending down beneath the waistband. The penguins are smiling and winking at me.

I tried to get him into a t-shirt, but he refused it. Possibly to torture me.

In fact, I’m positive this was his aim when he finally acknowledges me, rubbing a towel over his head and glowering. The threatening twist of his lips doesn’t stop my eyes from wandering over the way his torso stretches as he rubs that towel tantalizingly over his head.

Still, that apologetic expression is long gone, and I realize this is supposed to be ‘serious’ time.

“What?” I ask in a tired voice.

He just continues to stare at me, all pissy-like.

“What?” I prompt again.

After the third time I say ‘what’, he finally opens his mouth and accuses, “You told Kenny you were gay.”

“I told Kenny I like guys,” I correct him, sighing. Kenny has a big mouth. Maybe I should have let Cartman hunt him down and stick things in it.

Stan blinks, “Same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Why would you tell him and not me?” he asks, and I can tell I hurt him. Again.

If there was an award for hurting Stan, I’m pretty sure I’d win it.

Shit. I knew I should have told him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was scared of the implications, I guess. I should have known that not telling him would result in him standing in my living room, glaring at me like I’d made a move on his girl. It seems to be what always happens when I don’t tell Stan something.

We’re always at odds, always turning on each other the second we suspect a hint of betrayal. I wonder why that is? We’re the worst super best friends ever. It wasn’t always like this. Our relationship wasn’t always some terrible, twisted parody of what real friendship should be like. Was my leaving the catalyst for this strain, or was the seed of love the thing that grew between us?

I used to be able to read him like a book. Now his eyes are the dark blue of the thrashing ocean, and as guarded as a high security prison.

“I don’t know,” I reply, ashamed of myself, “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Kyle!” he snaps, and I’m scared he might lunge across the room, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

He just glares at me in this way that says ‘I don’t’ believe you’.

“Okay. Fine. I didn’t want to tell you,” I cross my arms, daring him to challenge me.

“I thought it was something like that,” he cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to jump to conclusions. Just because I’ve decided,” I gulp, take a deep breath, and try again, “Because I’ve decided that other dudes are mildly attractive doesn’t mean I’m accepting your…feelings, or whatever.”

Yeah. Real eloquent. Way to go, Broflovski. I sigh.

He sinks down on my couch, and I enjoy observing the way his abs sort of ripple a little. All that baseball practice back in high school did him good.

Okay. So not the time.

“Aw, dude. Not cool,” Stan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Not cool at all.”

I can feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment, and I demand, “What?”

“You are such a fricking idiot.”

“Hey!”

He mumbles something about subpar intelligence, and in a blazing voice I ask him if he cares to repeat it.

Stan swivels his head towards me, anger and frustration evident, “You heard me. You are such a moron. How could you even think that I’d try to pressure you like that?”

Oh. Er. Oops again.

I’m fully stopped in my tracks, and he knows it. He doesn’t say anything else. Even as the worst super best friends ever, we still understand each other underneath it all. He knows what I know; I can’t really say anything to fix this. I didn’t trust him, and that means I crossed a line that we’ve never been over before.

The living room is dark except for the flickering of my TV, which I muted when I went to answer the door, thinking a police officer wouldn’t appreciate delivering horrific news to the dulcet tones of Terrance and Phillip. The plateau of Stan’s chest is colored white, then blue, then red; each commercial flashing by transforms his skin into a kaleidoscope.

I’ve suddenly got a full blown mental image of Wendy, undressed and sweaty, riding Stan’s cock like it’s a fucking mechanical bull. In my mind his cheeks are red from exertion, and his blue eyes have that intensity they get when he’s really focused on something, just like the way he’s watching me right now. In my mind’s eye, he’s focused on the way Wendy’s breasts are bouncing up and down and the euphoric expression on her face the deeper he thrusts. Jealousy twists hard and fast in my gut.

Sometimes I really wish that I wasn’t so good at visualization.

Stan’s still watching me severely, and I must have an odd look on my face because he says, “Are you okay, man? You looked weird for a second there.”

I grimace, “Gee, thanks.”

Totally unfazed by my sarcasm he goes, “I meant you spaced. No need to get so defensive.”

“I’m not defensive!” I cry, pretty much proving that I’m really, really suspiciously wound tight, and not just about the impending apology I owe him.

Stan just rolls his eyes, “Whatever.”

“I’m not,” I insist in a weak voice, but I don’t even know why I’m trying. I won’t say that Stan can see right through me; anyone as dense as Stan Marsh doesn’t have the capability to see through my guard like it’s a plate glass window, but he has been unusually perceptive lately.

It’s kind of annoying.

I really wish he’d stop it. He’s looking straight into my eyes with this kind of cynical smirk on his face that I’d love to wipe off with my fist.

Then he distracts me.

Stan’s gaze drifts from my eyes to my lips before darting back up again.

Seriously? Was he seriously just staring at my mouth?

You know, all this time, I’ve been so self-obsessed that I haven’t even really considered what my agreement with Stan means.

It means he wants to kiss me. More than that, it means he wants to fuck me. He wants to tear off my clothes and put his hands everywhere and lick and nip and touch. God, that sounds really…good. I feel my cheeks warm from the vivid visuals my avid mind is producing. This is much better than thinking about him and Wendy.

So far all my homoerotic fantasies have featured me wanting to pin Stan down; never the other way around. I find the reverse is pretty tantalizing.

I wonder if he’s any good in bed. He must be, from all those girls he got on with. And Craig.

Loudly, he sighs. I must be the only one having strange fantasies about us being alone and him half-naked at that, because he demands, “Are you going to apologize, or what?”

I jump, shaken out of my perverted thoughts, “I didn’t think that would make a difference.”

He gives me a fond, exhausted smile, “It always makes a difference, even if it doesn’t make things right.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, with as much feeling as I can.

“Just…trust me next time, okay? If you stop believing in me again, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Stan looks so tired. Is all this thinking and feeling giving him as much trouble as it is me? It must be. Stan’s one of the most masculine guys I know. Even though he’s been dealing with all this for way longer than I have, now that’s its sort of encroaching on reality, he must be having a difficult time. I feel for him. No really, I do. Just because he’s an inconsiderate bastard who’s made me question my sexuality doesn’t mean I want him to go through his own private crucible. Plus it must really be killing him not to continue his quick-lay therapy with random girls. And Craig.

“I never stopped believing in you,” I tell him quietly, wishing the TV wasn’t on mute anymore so there would be some kind of background noise.

“You did,” he insists, “You left. You never called.”

This again. Fun.

“That was…I’m only human Stan.”

He laughs, dryly, humorlessly, “It never seemed that way before.”

“Well, I am,” I retort, trying not to let his words kill me inside. If he knew how long I’d agonized over this, I doubt he’d be bringing it up again and again. It’s like he’s telling me that he’s never going to forgive me.

Stan softens, “Sorry, Ky. I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve been so nostalgic these past few months, what with you coming back into my life. It’s hard to remember that the past is gone. But remembering that I spent time hating you…it makes waiting for your answer easier.”

He doesn’t have to mention that if I decide against him, it will be easier to go back to despising me that way.

I start to say something, but he holds up a hand, “Not that I’m expecting an answer this second. That wouldn’t be fair.”

My lips snap shut. God. Does he have to be so damned nice? Isn’t it like a psychological condition, being too nice?

So I change the subject, “Do you need to get home? I can drive you.”

Stan arches an eyebrow, “Trying to get rid of me?”

Briskly, I retort, “Of course not. Stay, for all I care.”

“I will,” he answers, amused.

“Okay then.”

“Fine.”

“Yeah.”

He picks up the remote and turns the sound back on. We watch some show for about an hour before deciding sleep is a much needed amenity for us working men. Actually, I should say that Stan watched the show, while I mentally stewed over everything. It didn’t help that Stan remained conspicuously shirtless.

Things would have been so much easier if I’d just stayed in New England.

We walk up to my room in silence. Stan could sleep in Ike’s room if he wanted.

I don’t suggest it, and neither does he.

He strips off the pants I loaned him, and his skin is as pale as alabaster in the moonlight. I know once summer hits, all those sleek muscles will be so tan from games of ultimate Frisbee, impromptu football matches, and swimming in Stark’s Pond that he’ll look like a different person. But right now, the whitish sheen of his body makes him look oddly vulnerable. Maybe it’s also because he’s standing there in his boxers, shivering from the cold.

Hastily, I pull back the same worn green comforter I’ve had since elementary school, allowing him to slip into my bed.

Sharing a bed has been our sleepover ritual since forever ago. Even in high school, when doing so was considered gay, we secretly slept side by side. At the time, I never thought why. For me it was because it was easier than putting sheets on the couch cushions to appease my mom and having to stay down in the living room so we could continue whatever late night conversation we’d been having.

Tonight I wonder if it was ever about more for Stan.

The second, the minute that I find myself wearing only boxers and a t-shirt and under the covers with him, I realize that this time around it’s about more for me. He’s hot, burning up next to me. Even though he’s facing my wall, I can practically hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s my own.

I want to put my hands over my ears to drown it out, but I can feel it, pulsing beneath my skin. Muffling the sound won’t do any good.

It’s going to be a really long night.


	18. Finding Myself Making Every Possible Mistake

It takes me forever to fall asleep. Between Stan’s stiff posturing and the burning knowledge that he’s right there, next to me, possibly thinking about me, it’s near impossible to drift off.

But…I do.

I wake up to find that my legs have somehow entangled themselves with Stan’s, which are very, very warm under the stifling heat of my comforter. I vaguely recall turning up the thermostat before going to sleep. My parents must not have made it home, because I know my mother would have turned it down to icy cool and barged in to yell at me about wasting energy by now.

Lazily, I reach over the side of my bed for my cell without freeing myself from Stan’s embrace. Its nice being wrapped up in his arms, although his legs are hairier than mine, and kind of scratchy. I wouldn’t have even noticed if his calf wasn’t rubbing up against my thigh. Oh well.

I’m in that half asleep, half awake daze where everything just seems so comfortable. I can’t be bothered worrying, not about anything.

I check my cell phone display, and find that my mom has left me a rather long winded message about not being able to make the drive home. Park County High School is located relatively close to a tiny, rundown motel, and she and dad decided to stay the night because of the blizzard. That’s all very well and good, but her voice is way too loud for this early in the morning. I hear something about making sure Ike gets home from school okay if he even has it before hanging up. The message will be saved in my voicemail if I need to actually listen to the whole thing later. Sighing contentedly, I throw my phone back onto my messy floor before sinking back into Stan’s arms. He has one thrown over my stomach and the other wound around my left bicep, which is comfortably numb from his weight.

This should be weird, but it isn’t. Maybe because the steady rhythm of his breath is keeping me calm, or maybe because it feels too hazy and safe and reality hasn’t sunk in yet. Either way, I don’t care. I snuggle closer, and end up with his head nuzzled into the crook of my armpit. Eh. Whatever.

I spend the next hour drifting in and out of sleep before his warmth leaves me.

“Kyle?” his voice sounds as rumpled and adorable as he looks when I manage to crack open an eyelid. He’s still next to me, but our bodies are sadly no longer touching.

Gaaaah. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts.

“Mm,” I mumble out, “Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.”

His stomach growls, just to emphasize his point.

“Me too,” I say, although I’m not really a breakfast person. We bolt downstairs, not bothering to brush our teeth. After we both wolf down a bowl of cereal, there’s a competition for who can secure the bathroom quickest. I should by all rights win, being taller, but apparently God favors football players. Stan locks himself in the bathroom for close to half an hour. I can’t think what else he has to do in there other than pee and raid our stash of guest dental care items. It isn’t until he emerges from the bathroom with rather shiny, well arranged hair that I realize what he’s been doing.

“You’re such a fag.”

“Kyle!” he turns towards me, face red.

“What? You just spent half an hour in my bathroom. Doing. Your. Hair. Dude, do you know how badly I have to piss? The least you could have done is masturbate. That’s what normal guys do in the bathroom.”

Stan rolls his eyes, “I did that in your bed, this morning.”

I’m speechless.

“That better be a joke, dude. I don’t want your jizz all over my sheets.”

“Relax, moron. I didn’t do anything. And for your information, Wendy’s coming over later today, and I have to look nice. It’s our anniversary.”

I shouldn’t feel so crestfallen about that, should I?

“That’s uh…nice. What number?”

Stan stares at me blankly, “I have no fucking clue. Do I look like a chick to you?”

“You don’t know how long you’ve been dating Wendy? Dude, you’re the worst boyfriend ever.”

“I wouldn’t even know it was our anniversary if she hadn’t texted me about it last night.”

Last night. When he appeared at my door, all dripping and god-like. It’s just not fair. He said he loves me, right? So why is he celebrating his anniversary- wait. No. I’m not thinking about this. I resolved not to think about this. I’m just accepting I like cock. I don’t need to start dwelling on love, much less getting all jealous the way I have been lately. I told Stan he could keep seeing Wendy. I shouldn’t be so freaked out by it.

“You’re such a callous asshole,” I tell him, “When do you have to meet Wendy?”

“Around five. And I’m not an asshole,” he corrects me, “I’m just really bad with numbers.”

Idly I ask, “How long have we been friends for?”

Immediately he replies, “Twenty two years and five months. And I know what you’re doing. Stop it. That’s different.”

“Why?”

I sound like a loser. Do I really need affirmation about this? Isn’t this that annoying thing that girls do?

“Because you’re the most important person to me,” he says softly, his eyes so deep and blue that I swear I could drown in them.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I gulp, racing past him and slamming the door. Hard.

* * *

 

I find Stan fiddling with his old acoustic guitar on my back porch. He gave it to Ike when we were juniors in high school because his dad bought him a new one. He must have snaked it from my little brother’s room. The burglary doesn’t really bother me, but the fact that he’s sitting in about five feet of snow does. He cleared off the plastic chairs, but he didn’t really bother making a path to them. I shove on some boots and tromp out to sit next to him, my pants soaked within seconds.

With a warning look I joke, “You better not have written me a song. I’m not a girl. You can’t win me over like that.”

Stan flashes me a grin that practically stops my heart in my chest.

I hate him so much right now. It shouldn’t be possible for him to make me feel this way. It shouldn’t.

“I know,” he replies casually.

“Its balls cold out here, dude.”

“I like the snow.”

“You’re a freak of nature. No one likes the snow this much.”

He shrugs. I notice he stole one of my college sweatshirts out of my closet. He’s wearing the same jeans he borrowed from me yesterday, and a pair of my dad’s snow boots. It’s kind of nice that he knows exactly how to make himself comfortable in my house. It’s a reminder of how long we’ve been friends.

Goddamnit, I’m getting so sappy. I’m staring at Stan like some kind of puppy while he strums the strings of the guitar idly, creating a jarring, incomplete melody.

This town is rotting my brain.

“Dude,” Stan mutters, still toying with the strings, “What do you want to do with your life?”

I’ll admit it. I didn’t see that one coming.

“Wha- where the hell did that come from?” I sputter.

Stan shrugs, shifting so that the long lines of his body are on display for me. I don’t know if he’s trying to look sexy on purpose, but the guitar settles along next to him like another body, and he’s so casual in my sweatshirt, wrapping his arms around the neck of the instrument.

Now, I don’t know what it is about us testosterone types and people wearing our clothes. I just know that seeing someone you’re attracted to in your boxers, in your shirts, or pretty much anything that belongs to you is a major turn on. If I had any doubts that I’m attracted to Stan, seeing him lying on our plastic lawn chairs on my back porch, hugging that guitar, wearing my filthy, unwashed college gear…yeah, those doubts are eliminated. His cobalt eyes are piercing through me, and I am seriously turned on.

“Come on, Kyle.”

Seriously, he says that. Why would he say that? Does he know what he’s doing to me?

“Um.”

“You have to have thought about it.”

Ravishing you? Yes. Now I am.

Wait, what was the question?

“Thought about…” I say breathlessly, “Um…the future?”

Stan gives me this ‘duh’ look that in no way diminishes how hot he’s making me, just sitting there. I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from. Granted, I’ve been fantasizing strange things about him for days now, and sleeping together last night without molesting him might possibly be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I normally don’t have control issues like this. Yet here I am, silently chanting to whatever god will listen.

Please don’t let me tackle my super best friend!

“What do you want to do with your life?” Stan prods me with a finger, and I have to stop myself from grabbing it and sticking it in my mouth like a fucking lollipop. Moses. Did mom stick aphrodisiacs in my box of cornflakes?

“Oh, uh-er. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it too much.”

“You haven’t-?” his mouth gapes open, and I know he thinks I pretty much just said the stupidest thing in the history of man. If I’d stayed in school for that final semester, I would have graduated college. I had a major. I had a plan. Or I must have, right?

The truth is…I don’t know if I’m ready to tell Stan the truth, because I haven’t even admitted it to myself.

When I was younger, things seemed so easy. You grow up. You graduate high school. You go to college. You go to grad school. You get married. You have kids. Life is perfect.

I always assumed that was how it worked out, and up until high school graduation, things seemed just so. And then I got to university and I realized…I didn’t have a fucking clue what I wanted to do. How do you decide what you want to spend the rest of your life doing?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a cowboy. I wanted to be a doctor. And I was smart enough to do all of that; well, I don’t know if cowboy would be an applicable profession, but you get my gist. I could pass Organic Chemistry. I could pass Thermodynamic Physics. I could pass anything if I studied hard enough. No sweat.

But…I was alone. No Stan. No mom and dad telling me what to do. My college friends were cool…but they wouldn’t be there forever. I was completely and utterly the master of my own life.

Goddamn did it scare me.

I’ve never had the firmest grasp on reality. People who spend their time dwelling with their heads in books rarely do. It never occurred to me that one day, far in the future, I’d be all on my own. And then suddenly I was. Alone. Completely.

I hate being on my own. The simple truth of the matter is that I like being told what to do with my life. I like having a controlling mother to instruct me about what’s good and what’s not. I like having friends who decide how we’re going to spend the day.

I wasn’t used to making gigantic, unalterable decisions about my life.

So I didn’t. I chose a major that seemed okay. And then I bombed my classes. Drinking was easier. Being at parties where thinking was optional was so, so much easier. And now I’m back here, where my mom dictates my life again. For a little while at least.

No way can I tell Stan I don’t even have the balls to choose what I want to do. That being on my own scares the shit out of me.

“I just…haven’t found my path,” I say, even though it sounds like some stupid, new age bullshit.

Stan’s watching me. I’m struck by the sudden, inexplicable fear that he knows. How can he know? I’m supposed to be the smart one. I’m supposed to be the one who understands…everything.

So why is it I understand nothing?

“You’ll have to decide eventually,” he says quietly, running his fingers over the chords of the guitar once more.

“I know that,” I snap defensively. I want to scream, but I can’t. Here I am, sitting across from a guy I’m immensely attracted to…a guy I’ve known my entire life, and nothing would make me feel better right now than railing at him. But Stan hasn’t done anything wrong. If anything, he’s acting more Stan-like than he has since I’ve returned to South Park. He cares about me, and he’s trying to help.

I don’t want his fucking help. I want to keep hiding, and pretending that the future is far, far away.

So I say, “What are you going to do? You’re not going to keep that office job forever, right?”

Ooh. Good going, Kyle. Turn the tables. See if he has some big plan. God, I’m so mature.

Stan smiles sort of absently. He brushes a thick lock of hair out of his eyes and turns his face towards the sky. I feel like he might fly away.

“Nah. I applied to a few grad schools for the fall. Got accepted to two. Just have to figure out which one I want to go to.”

“You…uh…grad school?”

Shit. I hadn’t even known he’d gotten his bachelor’s degree yet. How the hell did he get into grad school?

Immediately I feel bad for even thinking it. Stan’s not stupid. I know that. I’m just jealous. It’s not fun.

“Yeah,” he smiles that slow, absent smile towards the clouds again and says, “I’ve been taking night classes, you know? I’m finishing up my degree this May.”

“I…er…I didn’t know that.”

“Really?” he looks surprised, “I thought I mentioned it.”

“So where did you get accepted?”

Good. This is what good friends do. They ask questions. Questions pertinent to the conversation, that have no hint of unrestrained envy in them.

“NYU,” he beams, “And some school in Florida. I thought maybe I’d like to see a little more of the sun.”

He makes a haphazard gesture to the permanently cloudy sky that looms over our town.

“New York? And Florida. Wow.”

Wow. Those are…really fucking far away.

Seriously? How the hell can he run off to a whole different state this fall? After forcing me to decide if I can date him or just not be friends? I feel all my pent up sexual frustration churning my stomach, turning to pure rage.

“Yeah. I don’t know which to choose. I’m supposed to visit the campuses in a few weeks, actually. I guess I’ll decide then.”

“Wow,” I repeat.

I think he senses that I’m pissed. He’s staring at me now, wide eyed.

“Kyle,” he says.

I open my mouth. I glare at him and begin to reiterate, “Wo-“

Stan leans forward, propping his hands against the plastic of the lawn chair. He closes the distance of the porch between us, and abruptly I’m speaking into his mouth.

“-w.”

His mouth is soft, and the kiss feels like nothing at all, like he brushed his fingertips over my lips.

I’m frozen. Literally. I thought my heart had stopped before, but now I’m not even breathing. I don’t know if I’m ever going to breathe again, not if it will make him move away from me.

“You sonofabitch,” Stan curses lightly, the words tangible against my lips, “What were you thinking?”

I reach out a hand to steady myself against his arm, clutching his bicep tightly. I didn’t realize it, but I leaned over my own deck chair, and now I’m precariously close to falling head first into the massive snow bank between us.

Even though our mouths are still half connected, he’s looking at me. He expects a response.

I mumble, “I thought…I was thinking you’re going to leave me.”

He smiles against my mouth, and all of a sudden we’re kissing for earnest. His tongue darts out over my lips, and I’m pulling him closer, crushing my mouth to his because god, nothing has ever felt this right. It only lasts a moment, because now I’m falling into him, and he’s tumbling forward too. We both end up with our faces planted firmly in the snow, and my fingers freeze before scraping my deck’s surface and pushing myself up.

I hear robust laughter and see Stan’s already found his feet. He’s standing tall over me, up to his knees in powder, his hair wet and straggly.

"Dude, you look like such an idiot,” he says. I flush, pulling myself up and shaking snow off my head. Then I push past him, my numb fingers finding the door handle so I can flee inside.

I ignore him calling my name, stripping off my coat. My jeans are soaked all the way through now, but I’m not going to take them off in my kitchen. Stan might take that as an invitation.

Stumbling into my living room, I collapse on the couch. Mom’s not home to yell at me about getting the sofa sopping wet, so who cares? I listen intently as the back door slams shut and Stan enters the kitchen, stomping snow off his feet and shucking my dad’s boots.

He pads into the living room and plops down beside me on the couch.

“Kyle.”

I studiously ignore him in favor of examining the curtains.

“Kyle,” he tries again.

When I say nothing, he bursts, “Dude, stop acting like such a dick!”

I turn to face him, ready to say something, anything, and just like that, we’re kissing again. Goddamnit.

He’s pressing his mouth to mine urgently, prying my lips apart so his tongue can gain entrance. I gasp, letting him do what he wants; because once more I’m shocked by how incredible it feels just to have his lips whispering over mine. I kiss back, letting his tongue ghost inside my mouth, wanting him closer. My fingers aren’t numb anymore. They clutch the folds of my sweatshirt, which is damp from the snow, but that doesn’t matter because his body is hard and hot underneath.

His mouth leaves mine, and I groan, but his tongue is licking and nipping along my jaw line, and the tingling warmth I feel there is mirrored by the pooling in my gut. His leg slides between mine and he leans me back against the couch, and I’m struggling up, wanting him closer, wanting him to fucking kiss me again, harder. My hand winds in his hair, and it’s so soft, way softer than mine, but I yank the strands up so that his head is level with mine. His lips are red from all the pressure, but I don’t care. I crush my mouth back against Stan’s, arching my body up and into his. His thigh between my legs feels so good, and all I can think is closer, closer, closer. His hands are tracing my collarbone, and it feels good, but I want more. I let my fingers release my sweatshirt, wandering down to the strip of pale skin between the waistband of my jeans and my top, and did I mention him in my clothes is so freaking hot? He smells like Stan, but he smells like me too, like he belongs to me. My fingertips curl beneath the waistband of those damnable jeans and…

Stan’s off me like a shot.

What the hell?

“St-Stan,” I stutter, wondering why he has sex hair when all we did was kiss, even though that was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had.

“I can’t do this.”

“What?”

The incredulity in my voice must not be affecting him, because he’s mumbling something about his anniversary, and then he’s scrabbling for his shoes, his actual shoes in my foyer, and then the door opens.

There’s my brother, standing there with an inquisitive look.

“Kyle? Stan? What’s wrong? I had a half day so I came back early…” Ike trails off as Stan breezes past him, out the door, and then he’s gone.

What?

He left so fast he didn’t even close the front door, which is hanging wide open, kind of like how he left me hanging hard and sweaty and wanting. I feel like he punched me in the stomach, and that feeling, that feeling he inspired deep inside me, it’s flooding away and leaving me empty. All I know is that I can’t be empty, not right now, I can’t feel like this.

Why did he look so scared of me?

“Kyle?” my brother asks, kind of scared sounding. I look at him, and I can’t find any words to reassure him, because that feeling is leaving me.

Gruffly I murmur, “I’m going out for a bit.”

And I’m out the door, and down the street, and this isn’t the way Stan went, but I don’t care. He went back to Wendy, for his fucking anniversary, and why does that bother me?

So I find myself at the only door in town where I know there won’t be any questions. I’m pounding hard on it, and shit, what if he’s not home? What if he’s at work? But there’s so much fucking snow, everywhere, and I should know because it’s seeped through my jeans until I can’t find my legs any longer. I should have taken the time to put on snow pants, but then the feeling would be gone, that warm, glowy feeling like I finally belonged somewhere, like everything might actually be all right. How dare Stan give me that feeling and then rip it away?

I pound harder on the door.

It swings back.

I pull the person behind the door towards me with a warning, “Don’t ask.”

And then I press my mouth to his, trying to hold onto that feeling.

Kenny kisses me back.


	19. I Staggered Back To The Underground

Kenny’s mouth is hot on mine, and I can feel my body burning, itching to get closer. He yanks me hard towards him, and I can feel him pressing into my thigh, instantly aroused. He stumbles backwards into my apartment, tugging me in after him. We’re attached by the lips, by the need coursing through us. The door slams so loud it’s like a shot when off when he kicks it with his foot.

He starts leading me towards the couch, but just as my body begins to sag against his, prone to the ministrations of his wandering fingers, he changes course. Now we’re going towards the hall, towards his bedroom. We barely make it through the doorframe.

Kenny’s making noises I’ve never heard before, and grinding his body hard against mine. His tongue is ravishing me, making me forget, almost.

It’s dark in here, the shades pulled against the wintry streets. When my body hits the comforter I feel Kenny’s hands fumbling with the top button on my jeans. I wind my hand through his hair, coarser than Stan’s, and shorter. His tongue is in my ear, licking, nipping, and everything feels so fucking amazing that I feel my vision going dark. Shit. Kenny’s fingers are playing along the dip in my hipbone. His lips are attacking mine, his crotch bumping against me in such a way that I’m seeing stars.

“Kyle,” he breathes against my mouth, and the name on my lips isn’t his. His hand goes under my boxers, and that’s about when I freeze.

“Wait, stop.”

He isn’t waiting. His fingers brush over the head of my cock, and my whole body is at attention, tingles arcing down to my toes.

“Shit, Kenny! Stop!”

His hand stills.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice deeper, huskier than normal. I look down to see his cheeks pink, and not from embarrassment. His cerulean eyes are frightfully clear.

What’s wrong is that the feeling’s gone. That feeling I came here trying so desperately to hold onto, it’s gone.

“I can’t do this.”

“Why?” he asks, his clear blue eyes watching me, reproachful. He’s splayed out on my stomach, and I can feel that he’s still raring to go. Fuck.

“Because…”

Because his kisses don’t fucking taste like Stan’s. I remember the way Stan’s mouth on mine made the back of my neck flush and my skin feel too small and my stomach pool with warmth. Kenny’s hot. His touch makes me so, so fucking hot. But…there’s something missing.

And now I’m officially the biggest prick in the world.

The worst part is, I think Kenny knows. He jumps off me like my skin’s on fire, “God, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Kenny, no-“

“Get out, Kyle.”

“Kenny, shit, I’m-“

With icy calm, he commands, “Get the _fuck_ out. Get out of my house, _now_.”

So I do.

I run home, ignoring the freezing cold snow. I fall, like three times, slipping so that I hit my ass hard enough I can feel it reverberate up through my spine. All I do is get back up and run. I’m so SICK of being me. I’m so SICK of fucking up, all the time. I don’t know why I am the way I am. It’s not like I asked to be this way. Hell, if I’d had a choice in the matter I’d be tall, black, and making a mint in the NBA. And I’d never, ever have to worry about love.

My parents’ car is in the driveway. When I walk through the door, dripping all over the carpet my mom looks up and says, “Kyle, you left your little brother all alone-“

She’s seated in front of the TV with my little brother. My dad’s nowhere to be seen, but that probably means he’s in the little office he set up in the guest room. He’s such a workaholic.

“-Bubbalah, are you alright?”

That’s not what I expected. I look at her, really look at her, and see that her eyes are narrowed in concern. She’s not going to yell. She’s not going to scream.

And I look at her and I say, “Mom, I messed up.”

Her face softens. She breathes, “Oh, Bubhie, come here.”

I walk over to the couch and slump down beside her. Even though I’ve been bigger than my mom for about seven years, I fit perfectly against her when she wraps her arm around me, “Kyle, honey. Shh.”

I don’t know why she’s telling me to ‘shh’. Then I realize the room is filled with this whimpering sound. At first, I think it’s coming from the TV. There’s some chick flick on, something old with Meg Ryan. I’m surprised Ike even agreed to watch it.

I hiccup, and my mom pulls me tighter. The fabric against her collarbone is wet. I can’t see straight. It’s because I’m crying. The whimpering, it’s not from the television. It’s from me.

Okay, this is not acceptable. I take several deep breaths, calming myself. I haven’t cried since I was nine and broke my arm snowboarding. One last breath and I pull away slightly from my mom. There weren’t even that many tears; just a tiny, round spot of wet on her sweater. She doesn’t even glance at it. Both she and Ike are watching the movie, and I can appreciate it. They’re giving me space. They know I don’t want them to see. I wipe hastily at my face. My lungs feel bubbly and not quite right, like I might puke.

Someone told me once that you don’t cry when you’re sad. You cry when you’re frustrated. And fuck if I’m not. It’s not just the way Kenny looked at me, like I’d broken his heart. And it’s not how scared Stan was when he raced out of here earlier. It’s not even about them, or about love. It’s about the fact that I’m supposed to be mastering my destiny, but instead I feel like I’m a total, permanent fuck up. You know that old Blink182 song, What’s My Age Again? The lyrics in that song are true. Nobody does like you when you’re twenty three. Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Why don’t I go fucking eat worms? Somehow I think it would be more useful to drown myself in Stark’s Pond.

Mom glances at me, and says in a brisk, motherly voice, “You feel better now?”

“Y-yeah,” I hiccup again.

She smiles, kind, “Good. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Mom, what’s love?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, what’s love supposed to feel like?”

“Ah,” she nods, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Ike listening in, “Bubhie…have you fallen in love?”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t get it. There it is, the first true thing I’ve ever said. I just don’t get it. This love thing. This caring thing. How am I supposed to know what my heart wants when it beats a million miles a minute at one thing and the next. I know I care for Stan, because I can’t even imagine a life without him. But do I love him? Do I love anyone other than myself? Puzzled doesn’t describe how I feel now. I feel angry. Like breaking things and screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs. That can’t be what love feels like, can it? But then sometimes I feel soft, like there’s warmth pooling in my stomach; golden light, like Kenny’s halo and softness, like the way Stan’s hair felt under my fingertips.

Mom sighs, “Look, Kyle. You can’t over think it. They tell you things…love is gentle, love is kind. And maybe it is, sometimes. Mostly it’s hard. You don’t have to know who you want to spend your life with to be in love. All you have to know is who you want to be with right now.”

“You are such a fag,” Ike mutters under his breath.

Mom slaps him over the head with one bejeweled hand. I hope her wedding ring got him in the eye.

“What if I don’t know who I want to be with?”

“Then you figure it out. Kyle, you’re so young. You kids think you have to know everything once you’re in college. You think you’ve got to break the world to pieces, then put it back together so you can figure out how it works. Bubhie, you’ve got time. Even if you fall in love right now, it might not be forever.”

That might be true.

“Thanks mom.”

But even so, I still just don’t fucking get it.

I sit back and watch the movie, snuggled against my mother. For the first time in forever, I don't think about anything. Anything at all.

* * *

 

The next day, the snow melts enough for me to go to work. That’s not entirely true, actually. None of the snow really melted. They just plowed the hell out of the roads. It still takes longer than usual to get to Denver. I’m stuck behind about fifteen cars going twenty five miles an hour. It’s okay. I turn the radio up as high as it will go until the bass pounds through my seat and I can’t even hear myself think. Then, at work, I bury myself in spreadsheets; the numbers make it easy to concentrate on anything but me.

Afterwards is the problem. After a minute’s deliberation, I walk to Craig’s bar. I doubt that Stan or Kenny will be there, and honestly, I like it in the place. It’s dim enough that you can forget yourself, and Craig’s familiar, but not a big talker.

Or so I think.

The second I walk in, I’m spotted by the dark haired bar owner, who cries, “Fuck, Kyle. You too?”

I don’t know what he means, until I see who’s sitting in the table he’s standing next to. There are Clyde Donovan and Bebe Stevens, looking completely shitfaced and singing a rousing chorus of some pop song I’ve never heard of. They’re the only people in the bar other than a table packed full of girls in cleavage baring shirts who look equally plastered.

“Hiiiiiiiii Kyle!” Bebe shrieks, throwing up her hands so that the slinky baby tee she’s wearing rides up and I can see the curve of her bra’s underwire.

“Kyle! Duuuude,” Clyde slurs.

I can’t help it. I grin and say, “Hi guys.”

“What the hell is this?” Craig demands, hitting a cleaning rag repeatedly against the table, “Did Kenny put an ad out in The Press for Friends and Family Night or something?”

Guiltily I shift on my patent leather work shoes and ask, “Why Kenny?”

Craig smiles, not very nicely, “He’s the only douche who’s not scared when I say I’ll kill him.”

He then says more loudly, “Oye. I’m not giving any of you lot discounts.”

“Aw, that’s right sweetie,” Bebe pat his knee brightly, “You’re giving us drinks for free.”

“On the house!” Clyde cheers. He looks good. He wasn’t at our impromptu reunion, although I know he’s been around. I remember Kenny mentioned something about him working on his masters. He still kind of looks like a dumb jock to me, but that could be because he’s drunk.

“I’m not a fucking charity, bitch,” Craig growls.

“You always give me free drinks,” I point out, motioning for Bebe to slide over. She does, obligingly. Might as well get trashed. I’m still feeling miserable, and there’s nothing better than drinking with friends who have nothing to do with the situation.

“That’s because I can tolerate you. Barely,” Craig rebukes me.

“Hey!” Clyde yelps, pounding his hand on the table, “I’m your best friend, man. Not cool.”

Okay. He doesn’t need the drink in front of him. I snatch Clyde’s glass and take a sip. Whiskey. Blargh. Kenny told me once that real men drink whiskey. I guess I’m not a real man.

Then again, I don’t want to think about Kenny. I take a long sip of the drink, ignoring the burn.

“No, you’re a freeloading asshole.”

A mournful expression crosses Clyde’s face. He pouts, “So who’s your best friend?”

Craig sighs in defeat, “A freeloading asshole.”

“Hey! That’s me!” Clyde exclaims, a dopey grin taking over his face.

“Craig!” a loud voice screeches over our table, “We want cosmos!”

I wince. Whoever that was had a damned shrill voice. It was one of the cleavage girls for sure.

“Who is that?” I glance at him.

He frowns, “My baby sister and her sorority sluts.”

To her he yells, “Ask the damned bartender, skank. I’m talking to my friends!”

“But you make them better,” the girl whines back.

“Kill me. Kill me right now,” Craig mutters before leaving to do his job. I watch him go behind the bar, excusing the bartender who works for him so he can make his sister and her friends their drinks.

“He’s in a really bad mood,” I pronounce to the remainder of the table.

Bebe waves it away, “The day Craig Tucker isn’t in a foul temper is the day the dead rise from their grave.”

“No, that was Halloween,” Clyde says with a chuckle.

“Third grade,” I agree.

“Where’s my drink?” Clyde wonders aloud, and then yells, “Craig!”

All he gets in reply is, “Shut the fuck up, bastard! I’ll get to you.”

Clyde sits back in his seat, looking chastened. Beebe rolls her eyes, “Boys. Can’t even handle a tiny zombie infestation.”

“We handled it,” I object.

“Not well. Didn’t you cut Kenny in half with a chainsaw?”

Yeah. And now I cut his heart in half too. Fuck. No way am I arguing with a drunk chick, “Where’s Butters? I thought you two were like, an item.”

“We are,” Bebe giggles, “But he decided to go see a slasher film with Cartman.”

So that’s why fatass isn’t answering his phone. Aw, it’s nice he has friends. Thinking about Cartman makes me think about Stan, and Kenny, and then I end up swallowing a mouthful of burning guilt. Then I wash it down with whiskey.

“Bebe?”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“You know what’s going on with Craig and Token, don’t you?”

She glances up in surprise.

“Why do you want to know? I hadn’t pinned you for nosy.”

I shrug, “Just curious.”

That’s not strictly true. Craig is the only person I know other than Wendy who’s had repeated ‘close encounters’ with Stan. While I doubt neither he nor Stan is a huge fan of fagstastic pillow talk, I guess I feel like understanding Craig’s situation might better help me understand Stan. Its bullshit, but it’s true.

“O-kay,” she narrows her eyes. Whatever. It’s not like I need her to believe me. I just need her to be drunk enough to talk. And she is.

Real slow she says, “Craig had a thing for Token through all of senior year. He told Clyde,” she points to the other boy, who’s propped his head on the table. I think he’s asleep, unless he drools like that during most waking hours, “Who I was dating at the time, that he didn’t really know how he ended up falling for him. I guess they got dared to kiss at some party.”

I remember that party. I ended up naked at that party.

“So you know Craig. Stubborn as a bull. He slept around to get rid of his feelings, got a reputation as an even bigger manwhore than he already had. Token of all people was warning him to slow down, but that just pissed him off.”

“Naturally.”

“At graduation he finally caved and told Token what was going on. Wouldn’t you know it? Token had a thing for him too. But Craig’s free love philosophy sort of offended his delicate sensibilities.”

Hunh. Funny. This sounds familiar. And not just because I heard Craig and Stan arguing over something similar. Stan’s been balls deep in so many girls that I had to seriously consider his confession as some sick desire for conquests at first. I don’t blame Token.

“He’s old fashioned like that.”

Bebe obviously disagrees. She would. Back in high school she spread her legs so many times she could have been a cheerleader. No one hated her for it though. She was just too bouncy. Of course, having testicles I was rarely subject to her greatly feared bitchy side.

“So what happened?”

“He made Craig promise to wait for him.”

“Oh yeah, all the way through med school.”

I remember this part of Stan and Craig’s argument.

“No, actually. Only for the first four years of college.”

That’s not what Craig said.

Bebe finishes off the contents of her glass, which looked like some fruity drink, and says, “But he found out that Craig was fucking around with someone. I’m not sure who. That’s when he said Craig would have to wait another four years.”

“Who was he fucking around with?”

“Some guy,” Bebe shrugs, “I never found out. I don’t even know how Token found out, although I think he talks to Craig’s sister.”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. I think she thinks that’s underhanded of him.

I start to put together the dots. Token must have found out that Craig was screwing Stan, but he still gave him the benefit of a doubt. I wonder if he knows that Craig was only fucking Stan in the first place because he was lonely. At least, I would think that’s why. I remember Craig saying that Token didn’t believe in him. It must be hard knowing that the person you want most in the world doesn’t trust you.

Shit. I wonder if that’s how Stan feels.

But even if he feels that way, why would he run away from me?

In what feels like minutes, it’s closing time. Craig approaches the table and says, “Alright. Time to scram.”

Bebe jumps to her feet and giggles, “Okay. I just have to find my car keys.”

“Nuh unh,” Craig crosses his arms, “I called you and Clyde a cab.”

He then proceeds to nudge Clyde with his foot, “Get up loser. You’re going to stain my table with your toxic saliva.”

Clyde grunts, slowly cracking an eyelid, “Craig?”

“You bet your ass. Now get out.”

After he and Bebe evacuate, stumbling out into the street and into the awaiting cab, Craig turns to me, “You too, Broflovski.”

I frown, “Do you need any help cleaning up?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he gestures to the other bartender, “I pay people for that.”

He groans and adds, “Although tonight I’m lucky if I’m barely drawing even.”

Even though he says that, he’s a good guy. When I try to offer him money, he refuses. He evens asks if I’m okay to drive. I reassure him that I’ve only had one drink and make my way outside.

I start when I see the dark figure standing outside, leaning under the neon sign for the bar. At first, my heart stops. I think just for a second that it could be Stan. Only for a second though. Stan’s skin isn’t that dark, and his hair isn’t cut like that and holy shit, it’s Token.

“Token. Dude.”

“Holy shit! Kyle Broflovski? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Right back at you,” I pound his fist, all masculine like.

“What’s been going on?”

I shrug, “Drinking.”

Well, duh. I mean, this is a bar.

“I figured. Um…man, is Craig in there?”

“He is,” I smile a little, thinking of what Bebe said, “I heard you two are having some problems.”

Anger races across Token’s face, “He told you?”

“Nope. Bebe told me,” I say, and then, “For what it’s worth…I’m going through something similar. I empathize.”

He sizes me up, “Stan?”

Does everyone know my business? Ha. Token must feel the same way.

“How’d you know?”

“Clyde’s a blabbermouth,” he shrugs, “He told me Stan’s got a little promiscuity problem.”

“Little might not be the right word,” I sigh, “But that’s not really our issue right now.”

“It’s not Craig and mine’s anymore, either,” he sighs. Shit. It’s like looking into a mirror.

Abruptly I ask, “Do you love him?”

“Craig?”

I roll my eyes, saying nothing. He’s getting his MD for God’s sake. Figure it out.

“I…love is such a strong word.”

“So…you don’t love him?”

“I didn’t say that,” if it wasn’t so dark, I’d bet money he’s blushing. In a soft voice he says, “I just…I’ve never clicked with anyone like I click with Craig, you know? Being away from him bites. But sometime being with him hurts too.”

Exactly. He just summed up how I feel exactly.

“You should talk to him,” I decide.

“No, I’m good just standing here,” Token exclaims in a rush.

“Like a stalker?”

“I’m not like a stalker.”

“C’mon. How long have you been standing outside this bar? I thought you were supposed to go home like, last week?”

“I’ve only been standing here for- shit. Okay, and I extended my trip. I’m here ‘til Saturday.”

“Hope to see you again soon then,” I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my work slacks, “We can hang. But for right now, go talk to Craig. And Token, don’t make him wait around forever. He’s a lonely guy.”

“Kyle-“

I open the door of the bar, sticking my head in, “You know, Craig, for a guy who likes his life nice and boring, you sure get yourself into a lot of shit.”

“What the hell are you talking about Kyle?”

I grin, “Come on out and see.”

Then I turn on my heel and walk away. Behind me, I hear the jingle of the bells as the door opens. Then I hear Craig’s voice, “Token?”

I hope they work it out. Someone needs a happy ending. Even if it’s never going to be me.


	20. For All The Ghosts That Are Never Gonna Catch Me

Sometimes I forget that the rest of the world doesn’t live in my brain. I waste days thinking helplessly about situations, analyzing ever single aspect of them, like how I screwed up with Kenny. And then, when I finally muster up the courage to go back to his place, I get confused when he doesn’t seem happy to see me.

He doesn’t know I’ve spent days thinking about him. He doesn’t know what’s on my mind.

Hell, maybe he doesn’t even care.

“Broflovski,” he acknowledges with a tired face. He’s wearing a pair of blue and white flannel pajama bottoms, a black t-shirt, and has total bed head. I didn’t think I’d be waking him up. It is five in the afternoon, after all.

“Hi, Kenny. You…uh, you didn’t go to work today?”

“Other things on my mind,” he mumbles, stepping back to let me into the apartment. He looks up at me, and I guiltily take note of the dark circles under his eyes. They’re the purple blue of bruises, like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Um. Oh.”

I follow Kenny to his couch, where he collapses into a boneless heap. He curls his feet up next to him, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“What do you want?”

I sigh, “To apologize.”

He glances up at me through his eyelashes, long and blond, like a girl’s. Kenny has a really beautiful face, for a boy. His nose is fucked up from breaking it on at least four different occasions. One of which was my fault, if I recall correctly. We got in a fist fight freshman year of high school over something. I can’t remember what. I wonder if he does. He’s got these regal cheekbones, like he’s fucking royalty or something. And then there are those gorgeous cerulean eyes, piercing right through me, even now. Not to mention his lips…

My mind is off track. It would be so much easier if I liked Kenny, instead of Stan. I do like Kenny. No really, I do. I just need to get Stan Marsh out of my head, if that’s even possible. I really hope it is. I can’t stand the thought of dying someday far in the future with him still hotwired into my brain. He’s such an asshole.

I’m silently seething over what Stan did the other day, and I’ve totally forgotten that I’m here to talk to Kenny.

“Kyle?”

My cheeks redden guiltily. See this is why I can’t be with him, even if he’s beautiful. Even if he’s an amazing friend. Even if he turns me on.

I take a deep breath, “Look, the other day when I came, I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have come here, but when I’m in trouble, it seems like you’re the first person I go to nowadays.”

Kenny smiles slightly, but the words out of his mouth are bitter, “When you’re in trouble with Stan, you mean.”

“Kenny-“

“No,” he says quietly, “I know. I’m the first one on your mind only when Stan isn’t around. That means the other day he was the one who fucked you up. He was the one who made you like that.”

“Er-how much do you know about what’s been going on with me and Stan?”

Kenny bites his lips. I’ve never seen him look so childlike and insecure, even when he was a child. I think about the last time we really conversed about my sexuality. I thought then that Kenny’s a survivor. He always has been. So why is he so broken? Why does it have to be me who breaks him? It’s not fair.

“I know a bit,” he says casually.

“How much is a bit?”

I know I sure as hell haven’t been discussing the situation with Kenny. I talked to him about Cartman, sure, but for some reason I always skirt around the topic of Stan. Maybe because it feels _too_ personal.

“Look, I know that something’s been going on with you and Stan. I know he was fucking Craig, and then he stopped. I know…” Kenny sighs, “I know he told you he loves you.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

Not from me.

“Stan. He is my friend too, even if we’ve drifted apart.”

“Stan talks to you…about me?”

“Sometimes,” Kenny says darkly, “When I feel like being a masochist.”

Shit. There went my mind again. Back to Stan. Kenny deserves someone who thinks solely about him. I wish I could be that person.

“I think…we made this bet-type-thing,” I tell Kenny, “That we’d try seeing if we could fall in love, in a month.”

“You mean if you could fall in love with him,” Kenny corrects, “He’s already smitten with you.”

“I don’t know about that,” I shake my head, running my fingers through my curly, springy hair, “The other day, we kind of kissed.”

A shadow of his old self, Kenny cracks half a smile, “With tongue?”

“Perv,” I shove him lightly with my fingertips. I’m scared if I do it any harder he’ll shatter into pieces. That smile of his is the fakest I’ve ever seen. The pain behind it is tangible. Fuck me for doing this to him.

“So you like Stan.”

“I…yeah. I guess.”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know. Last time, he ran off…”

“Must be some kind of bug going around,” Kenny says meaningfully, and I feel awash with a new wave of guilt.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Please forgive me.”

Kenny’s quiet for a really long time, his eyes searching my face. Finally he says, “When you came back to South Park, I saw it as a way out.”

“What?”

“I hate this town. I hate how the mechanic’s shop…this apartment…this is the best I’m ever going to get.”

“Kenny, that’s not true-“

“Shut up and listen, Broflovski. Do me that favor.”

I frown, “Okay.”

“I’m gay, in a town where gay people are treated like they have the plague. My friends are self centered pricks who don’t give a damned about anything other than their own fucked up issues. On top of that, I’m fucking poor, and I’m uneducated. It’s like prison.”

I think about when we first met. I think about that look he had in his eyes, like he wanted to escape. I recognized that look, but I never once asked him about it.

“And the thing is, even if I went somewhere else, it would be the same. Because nobody is ever going to care about me the way you and Stan care about each other. Hell, you guys were thousands of miles apart, not even speaking, and I swear to god the only thing on your minds was each other.”

I feel like the biggest dick in the universe.

“I’m never going to have that, Kyle. I’m never going to have someone who cares about me that much. I thought that maybe…maybe there was a chance…? I don’t fucking know. I thought wrong. I’m going to be alone, until I die…for good.”

I don’t like the sound of this, at all. For the first time I look at Kenny, really look at him. Not at his fragility, or his beauty, or his strength. I look at him like the friend I’ve known forever and a day. I look at the kid who set off stink bombs on the bus four years running, the kid who helped me learn to get rid of my paralyzing fear of riding a bike, the kid who spiked the punch during prom. This is Kenny McCormick. This is one of my best friends.

“You’re not going to end up alone.”

He glances up at me, his eyes rimmed red, “What?”

“Kenny, you’re not going to end up alone.”

“What the hell are you going to do about it? You don’t want me,” his eyes look hopeful for a second, “Do you?”

Agh. Great.

“I want you, just not the way you need me to. Kenny, you’re one of my best friends. Stan’s not the only person I missed up at college. I must have told a zillion stories about you to all my friends up there.”

He blinks, smiling slightly, “Really?”

“Yeah dude!” I grin, “I haven’t been the best friend as of late. For a while, actually. But I promise I’m not going to fucking leave this town unless I know you’re happy. And by happy I mean that you have someone, anyone. It doesn’t have to be a boyfriend. Just a friend who will care about you, talk to you…the way I should have been doing these past few years.”

“What about once you finish school? I thought you wanted to get the fuck out of Colorado.”

I shake my head, “No. I do, eventually. But what I want more in my life is to be a good friend. To you, to Stan. Hell, even to Cartman. I’ve been messing up so badly, for so long. The only times I’ve been completely happy is with you guys. I owe it to you to make sure you get to be happy too.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Kenny mumbles.

“Okay. I don’t owe it to you. I want to. I want to make sure that you’re happy. You deserve it, Kenny.”

He’s quiet. And then, “God, Broflovski, you’re such a fucking sap.”

I grin, and wrap an arm around his shoulders, “Just for you, McCormick.”

“Aw, flatterer.”

I think that’s about when I realize that I’m forgiven.

“Did Cartman ever come talk to you?”

He makes a face, “That’s not funny. I can’t believe you sicced him on me.”

“I didn’t sic him. He’s not a dog.”

“Could have fooled me.”

I laugh.

He looks me dead in the eye and says, “I swear to God, Kyle. If you let Cartman be that person, I’ll shoot you in the nuts.”

“I thought you like my nuts.”

“I do. But I like not having sexual thoughts about Cartman even more.”

“How do you know? Have you ever tried? I think you guys would make a cute couple…” I trail off, noticing the death glare that Kenny’s giving me. Meekly I tack on, “Or maybe not.”

He changes the subject, “You know what I never understood about your friendship with Stan?”

“What?”

“You guys always seemed to me like total opposites. You’re smart. He…well, isn’t at your level. He gets along with practically everyone, while you take a while to warm up to people you don’t know. You’ve got a backbone, and well he’s…Stan. You’re so different.”

“But we’re the same, too.”

“I know. Popular jocks. Handsome as fuck. You guys get off on the same movies, and even though your music taste sucks and his is awesome, he still listens to your indie shit.”

“My music is not shit.”

“Unh hunh,” Kenny rolls his eyes, sinking deeper into the couch cushions, “I just always thought it was funny that you guys got along so well.”

Kenny’s right. Stan and I are a study in opposites.

“I get along well with you, too.”

“That’s because I’m just generally charming.”

“O-kay. Sure,” I laugh. Some of the light is back in Kenny’s eyes. He’s strong again. Maybe some of that strength comes from me. I never realized that his friends were so important to him. I never realized how alone he felt. But now that I know, I’m serious. I’m not going to let him end up by himself. That would be a tragedy, and if anyone deserves more, it’s Kenny.

Before I can say or think anything else, my phone buzzes.

“I hope that’s not Cartman,” Kenny warns me.

“I doubt it. I think he’s on dispatch duty today,” I glance at the caller ID screen, “It’s Wendy.”

“Wonder what she wants?”

Hopefully not to invite me over to dinner again. I’m getting so damned sick of her interventions, even if she’s just trying to be nice. I tell Kenny so, and he says, “Well, Stan does seem to like nosy people.”

When I realize that’s an insult towards me, I scowl and pick up the call, “Hey, Wendy.”

Kenny’s making faces next to me, crossing his eyes and trying to touch his tongue to his nose. My scowl dissolves into a smile.

“Hi, Kyle,” Wendy says breathlessly, and I don’t really want to know why she sounds like that.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, um. Well, this might be kind of intrusive, but I wanted to know if anything had happened between you and Stan, lately?”

My first, gut clenching thought is; she knows. I stutter, “Er-well, uh, like what?”

In her sweet voice, Wendy says thoughtfully, “I don’t know, like maybe a fight or something? He’s been moping around his apartment forever. I think he even skipped work a few times. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, and I thought that-“

“That maybe it had something to do with me?” I ask, a hint of anger in my voice.

She titters, “Yeah. You have to admit, no one affects Stan quite like you do. It’s enough to make a girl jealous.”

I’m sure it is. Bitch.

I start at the thought. Where the hell did that come from? I like Wendy. I’ve never had a problem with her before.

And then she launches into a new topic, “You know just the other night I was trying to get him into bed…like, you know…and he decided it would be more interesting to talk about you.”

“Oh?” I’m interested.

“Yeah. It took a blow job to convince him to shut up,” she giggles, “If you were gay, I’d be worried.”

I chuckle half heartedly, “Worried I’d steal your man?”

“You are the fourth most persuasive person in this town.”

“Who are the first three?”

“Me, of course. And Cartman, that fatass. And your mother,” I can almost hear her smiling on the other end. She thinks she’s having a funny conversation with an old school friend. Not the boy who’s stealing her boyfriend away. The thing is, I can’t figure out which emotion to feel. Shame for what I’m doing to Wendy or this nagging sense of jealousy that sprung up at the words ‘blow job’.

I end up telling Wendy that I don’t know what crawled up Stan’s ass, and that I’ll come by and visit sometime soon. And I will. We need to talk over what happened the other day. Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be anywhere near as light as the conversation I just had with Kenny.

After I’ve hung up, the blond glances at me, “So what did Wendy have to say?”

“Stan’s PMS-ing. She asked if I knew why.”

“Did you tell her it’s because you refused his advances?”

“No,” I grimace, “And I didn’t refuse anything. He’s the one who ran away from me.”

“Stan Marsh,” he muses, “Always the skittish one. That boy has serious commitment issues.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I respond in a dry voice.

Kenny winks, and replies sarcastically, “Happy to help.”

I throw a couch cushion at him, which he skillfully dodges.

“Dude, weak,” he yells.

I’m just happy he’s smiling.


	21. All We Ever Are Is Friends

I spend a lot of time on Stan’s welcome mat. I bet if I added up all the minutes I’ve stood in front of his apartment, staring blankly at his door, it might very possibly be a larger amount than I could count on my fingers. Which is pretty much all I have the brain capacity for right now.

I kind of expected to waste most of today doing much of the same. Standing and staring, I mean.

I walked the seven flights to Stan’s apartment, lost in thought all the while. What the hell was I going to say?

Then I ended up here, in front of the door.

The door that’s half way open.

Ignoring my conscience, which is screaming that nice boys don’t intrude in other people’s homes without knocking, even if the door is already ajar, I press my hand against wood. The door swings back with startling speed. I guess these apartments are new; the hinges must be well oiled.

Only, I kind of wish they weren’t.

Mostly because I’m now scarred for life. Or I would be, if I wasn’t experiencing major déjà vu.

The first thing I really register is that Wendy’s wearing a red bra. Sheer, with satin stripes. It’s pretty racy for a girl who used most of her school career lobbying against lumberjacks and deforestation. I guess being a night legal secretary forced her to push it up a level. The second thing I register is that her panties are black. Lacy. Odd, I kind of always imagined her as a matching lingerie set kind of girl.

It’s only then that I let myself register the third, integral part that’s been missing from the equation. Stan. Half naked. Sweat creating a slick sheen against the skin of his back. Wendy’s legs wrapped around him, the black lace panties dangling from her ankle as my asshole of a best friend thrusts balls deep into her.

She moans, throaty and loud, while he kisses his way along her neck. I can already see the telltale bruising of a line of previously made hickeys.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is primal.

And this time, unfortunately, I’m not having one of my twisted fantasies.

The plastic bag full of Italian food I brought as a peace offering hits the floor with a resounding smack and splatter that most likely means the fettuccini alfredo I brought is now coating the floor like a cum shot.

Wendy’s head snaps up just as Stan yanks himself out of her, letting go of his grip under her ass and thighs. She falls onto the tile like a lead sack.

I guess that’s what you get when you decide to fuck like bunnies in the foyer. With the door open. Who the hell leaves the door open? Moses, were they in that much of a rush?

I’ve never been in that much of a rush to bang. What have I been doing wrong?

“God!” Stan curses, manhandling his still hard dick back into his jeans. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was getting off on the fact my eyes are glued to his member. I must be imagining things. I feel faint.

“Don’t you knock anymore?” he demands, pulling up his fly. They were in so much of a rush neither of them could even undress properly. Hunh. Unless this is some kind of ritual for them. Like, hey honey, let’s have animalistic sex where all the neighbors can see, and we’ll stay half dressed so that when someone inevitably walks in, we can act embarrassed and pretend it was an accident.

I’m probably over thinking this. I can’t help it. My brain was fried before even reaching the door, and whatever I expected, it wasn’t an instant replay of my meeting with Stan back in January. What’s he got about shoving girls up against vertical surfaces, anyway? Does that make it better, or something? Does it make him feel like he’s more in control to have their legs wrapped around him, unable to escape?

Why am I stuck on this? Possibly because the image is now burned into my brain, yes. And there is the fact that half my mind is imagining if it’s even possible for him and me to do the same sort of thing. I’m not up to par on the schematics of gay sex, but I’m pretty sure it’d get fucking uncomfortable for a guy to be in that position. Not to mention that there would be awkward ball squish-age. Nope, it definitely doesn’t seem plausible. Maybe if he turned me around, or I did the same to him.

Not that it’s ever going to happen now. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to speak to him again. Ever.

He’s glaring at me with a passion, “Shit, Kyle. Aren’t you going to say something?”

I toe the mess I made on his welcome mat and reply, “I brought pasta.”

Wendy dressed with the speed of light. I didn’t even notice her shrugging into that denim mini skirt and slinky top. She even managed to put on her brown heeled boots, and a deep royal purple wool coat. Her cheeks are still flushed. I guess I interrupted her orgasm. I probably should have walked in right as it happened, and then she could have enjoyed her post-coital bliss.

I blink. Stan’s staring at me, his face heated with rage.

I guess I should have come to visit earlier. I told Wendy I’d stop by, but I’ve become an expert at putting things off. I still had a week and a half, at least, until the agreement was over. So I went to the community college and signed up for classes. And then I let mom con me into babysitting Ike. I spent the rest of my time at work. Then I realized I only had a week. So I came. At least I should have given him a courtesy call. Then he would have known not to schedule the Skinemax show during my arrival.

I turn around, taking a step forward. Away from the apartment. Away from this- I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from thinking all the expletives making a grand tour through my head right now- all of this.

A warm hand wraps around my forearm, stopping me in place. I look up, my eyes meeting cobalt blue. Like the ocean. Like the midnight sky.

Wendy murmurs something like an apology to me. I think she’s too embarrassed to speak. She kisses Stan on the cheek, and then hurries past us both. I watch the purple of her coat as she flees down the hallway, fluttering away like a butterfly.

Stan lets go of my arm and mutters, “You are like a perpetual cock block, you know that?”

I nod meekly and follow him into the apartment, stepping over the remains of what would have been a conciliatory dinner. He’s staring at me again, even as he collapses onto his couch with exhaustion. He’s still not wearing a shirt, and the glint of his silver belt buckle blinds me, making my vision blur. I turn away to get rid of the sight.

“What are you doing here?” he sighs.

I turn back again. Stubble has grown thick on Stan’s chin and jaw line. He looks like some displaced drunkard, kicked out of the bar at four am. It’s kind of hot.

He shifts uncomfortably and I realize he’s still hard. You would think massive humiliation might squash the arousal, but apparently not.

“Er- I…I came to tell you,” I lick my lips nervously, all my well planned out speeches falling away, “I came to tell you something.”

“Yeah?” he cocks his head to the side like a dog.

“I was just…I mean I realized there was only a week and,” I gasp, feeling my breath finally leave me completely as what I just witnessed sinks in, “My god.”

He glances at me, worried now, “Kyle?”

“I came over here to tell you that I think…that I thought I was maybe almost in love with you…”

His face hardens.

Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke?” he asks, scowling.

“Yeah. Fuck you, you cocksucking bastard. It’s an April Fool’s joke,” I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from saying more. All the thoughts I’ve kept so neatly locked up in my head are threatening to spill out of my mouth, and I know if I let them, any chance Stan and I have at real friendship will be over. On the other hand, I’m starting to think any chance we had is already gone. I don’t even get why I’m so attached to the idea of us being friends. Four months home and already my memory is getting hazy. I was so certain I couldn’t live without my super best friend, and now I can’t even recall where that certainty came from. It’s still there though, lying deep in the pit of my stomach, stabbing at me every time I even consider walking away and never coming back.

Right now it’s battling with wave after wave of white hot jealousy. I don’t know whether my assuredness or my envy is going to win. Considering the situation, I’m kind of hoping for the dark side.

Stan’s taken aback by the venom in my voice, which was kind of the point. I don’t know what it is in me that likes seeing that hurt look in his eyes. Hell, maybe it’s the Prince Charming at my core that likes being there to pick up the pieces after he slices them up. I must be a sadomasochist.

But if I am he is too.

“Kyle,” he says my name once, twice, three times, like a mantra.

And that’s when it happens. I lose it.

“You. You’re so fucked in the head! Can’t you just make up your mind? You hate me, you love me, you run away from me, you ask me to stay. Goddamnit am I sick and tired of spending all my time thinking and bitching about you.”

“Kyle-“

“No. My time to talk,” I grimace at him, “What the hell was that I just walked in on?”

“That was me, and my girlfriend,” Stan whispers, “You know that. You knew that. You told me I could still be with her until you decided.”

“So, what you’re just using her as a warm body to replace me?” I demand.

“No. Never,” Stan shakes his head, eyes bright with fear, or anxiety. I can’t tell which. I don’t really care.

“Then what is she? Some kind of cum dumpster?”

“What? No! It’s not like that. I-“

I cut him off, challenging, “What? You what Stan? You love her? Do you love her, or do you love me?”

“I told you that already,” he says, his voice heartbreaking in the stillness of the apartment.

“But you fucking ran away!” I scream, my voice bouncing off the walls, coming back to me as something broken and lost. Shit. Why is it I can never figure out how intensely I feel something until it ends up pouring out in public?

His mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment. I don’t know what he’s more amazed at; the fact that I just screamed so loudly they probably heard me in the basement of the seven story building, or that what I’m upset over is him. He’d probably like the latter, the two-faced dick.

“Have you cheated on her?”

He glares at me, “What? Fuck no. I promised you I wouldn’t.”

“Oh. That’s…uh, good.”

“Kyle.”

“No, really. I mean it. Keeping promises is great. Very character building.”

“Jesus, Kyle, you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting? Fuck you, I’m mortified!”

He opens his mouth and then wisely closes it again.

I teeter on my feet, ready to slump against the couch, moaning, “I’m so done. Done, with all of this.”

I think I must have underestimated his anger. Because just like that, the tides have turned.

“Oh really?” Stan raises a lofty eyebrow, staring at me dead on, “What are you going to do about it? Hey, I have a super idea. Why don’t you go get drunk?”

The poison in his voice at that last word has me reeling. I hear my voice, raspy and choked, “What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about Kyle.”

“No, I don’t have a fucking clue!” I yell, not understanding why my voice is getting louder, but hoarser, like I’m it’s on the verge of cracking. I don’t even really get why I’m yelling.

“Every time something big comes up, you run away to a bar. Or a party. Or Kenny’s, where the fridge is fully stocked,” Stan tells me, frost in his eyes.

“So?” I ask, trying to put all my frustration at his ridiculous accusation into that one word, “You drink all the time.”

Stan shrugs his shoulders, “Yeah. When I’m bored. When I’m at a party, or a bar.”

I cross my arms, “See?”

Instead of admitting defeat, he rolls his eyes, “I see perfectly fine. Twenty twenty vision. I said when I’m at a party or a bar. I don’t go out of my way to find one. I might be some weak ass pussy, or whatever you guys used to call me at high school, but at least I’m not so weak that every time my life goes to shit I run straight to the liquor store.”

“No, you go for the nearest vagina. Are you calling me an alcoholic?” I demand, fuming.

“No,” Stan scowls, “Screw that. I’m calling you a motherfucking coward.”

I don’t get it.

“Hunh?” I can tell my confused expression is diffusing some of his rage, because he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he does when he can’t think of another way to express his inner turmoil, or whatever Goth shit he’s got going on inside.

“Kyle,” he breathes, “Ever since you came home, you’ve been hiding. From everything.”

I still don’t get it. Stan stares straight at me, cobalt eyes unwavering. His bangs cut shadows onto his forehead, black as a raven’s wing. When did he get so goddamned beautiful?

Wait. I’m supposed to be furious. I return to seething, expecting to listen to some half assed explanation. Instead I get this:

“What I mean is that…you drink, sure, fine, that’s great. But every time you don’t want to deal with something, you practically gallop for Craig’s bar, or Kenny’s fridge. And you know what; the part where you drink is whatever. It’s no big deal. The part where you’re running away isn’t cool, dude. Not at all. I bet if the whole of Colorado decided to become a dry state you’d find somewhere new to run. You’re always running. Always hiding. Don’t you just get tired of it?”

He’s right. I’m fucking exhausted. But no way in hell am I telling this prick that.

“Up yours, dickhole.”

“Do you have to be such a total bitch about everything? I get it enough from Wendy. I don’t need you on my case too.”

“Fine! You won’t have me anymore,” I shout, and if they didn’t hear me downstairs now, they definitely do now, “You know what? I came over here because I thought with a week left, maybe we could make it work. Screw the last week. And screw you!”

Stan goes ghostly pale, jumping to his feet and blocking what would have been an extraordinarily dramatic exit, “Kyle.”

“Get out of my way, slimeball.”

“Kyle. Kye, calm down.”

And the roller coaster of emotion dives down. I can’t make my mouth work.

“Did you just call me Kye?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You haven’t called me that since-“

“-Since we were fifteen and you told me not to because Bebe Stevens said it was fagtastic.”

“Yeah.”

Dead silence envelops the apartment. It’s just a stupid nickname. All he did was take out a letter.

And I can’t stand it.

He gives me this hurt puppy dog look that slices through my chest.

So I do what my instincts are screaming.

I just walk away.


	22. How I Loved The Once And Yesterday Before It Vanished Into Thin Air

My phone rings. Without looking at the screen, I pick it up. I’m trudging through snow ridden streets towards the one place I sort of promised myself I wouldn’t end back at.

Kenny’s going to kill me for showing up on his doorstep. God, I’m a wishy-washy bastard.

“Kyle,” Stan’s voice carries over my cell, “Kyle, don’t hang up-“

Oops, too late. That’ll teach the bastard.

Cheating asshole.

I hope he drinks all the beer in his fridge and dies in a puddle of his own vomit. Then we’ll see who hides from their problems.

Self-righteous dick. How dare he preach to me when he just finished sticking it to Wendy? Gaaaah! Fuck. I’m so mad that I can barely see straight. I walk faster, stuffing my hands down my pockets to keep warm. Even my gloves aren’t protection, and its fricking April. I hate Colorado.

Five minutes later, he calls again. I don’t know why I pick up. Actually I do. I can’t NOT pick up my cell phone. It’s a neurosis of mine. Seriously. If I have no choice but to let a call go to voicemail, I feel all itchy.

So I click open my phone and go, “Yeah?”

“I told you not to hang up asshole!”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say clearly back into the phone, and then I hang up again.

When he calls a third time, I force myself not to pick up. It’s hard work. My mind goes on overdrive. What if he’s calling this round to tell me there’s been an accident? What if he just witnessed the death of one of my family members and the police asked him to call? What if- what if-what if? Jesus H. Christ, I’m spazzing more than Tweek Tweak on a coffee buzz.

I reach the entryway to Kenny’s apartment building and breathe a sigh of relief. I have to remind myself not to do anything rash before I head over to his actual place. I promised Kenny I would be there for him, and part of being there for him requires not leading him on. We’ve hung out a couple of times since our heart to heart, but mostly its involved smoking and playing Texas Hold ‘Em in the auto body shop with minimal conversation. He needs time, and I respect that. He probably needs space too, but unless he says something, I don’t know if I can give it to him. He’s the only friend I’ve got in South Park who understands.

It’s selfish of me, but it’s true.

I’m not going to talk about Stan though. I saw how much it hurt him last time, even though he put up a brave front.

Hopefully it won’t all spill out of my mouth, which is my trademark venting process. I feel my anger boiling inside me, and I keep having flashbacks to the scene in Stan’s foyer. Wendy. Lace panties. Alfredo sauce. Indiscreet gaping at Stan’s member. Um. Wait, that part never happened.

Wendy. I wonder if it all comes back to her. I mean, I never should have told him I was okay with them still being together. I just…at the time I thought it wouldn’t be fair, because I honestly never thought that our bet would get anywhere. I never thought Stan, Kenny, and Cartman were going to use their homo pheromones and lure me over to the dark side. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined something like that happening, and now I’m…well, I’m not sure what I am. Angry. And filled with a pressing need to talk to Kenny.

Only when I get to Kenny’s I realize I might not get the chance to.

Today is apparently national let’s-not-close-our-doors day. Kenny’s is wide open, but lucky for my poor, scarred ego he’s not pounding some chick on the entryway. Instead he’s sitting on his couch, drinking beer with Cartman. His eyes are glued on a baseball game, but I get the sense he’s not actually watching. Mostly because they’re involved in a conversation, which is something I frankly wasn’t really aware the fatass was capable of having.

They don’t see me, mostly because their eyes might or might not be focuses on the tight pants and attributes beneath them belonging to the baseball players on TV. I duck out of sight just in time to see Cartman turn, not entirely sure why I don’t want my two friends to see me, but just certain that I don’t. I sink down against the wall next to the door frame, listening.

“Are you ever going to leave?” Kenny wonders irritably. All lardbutt does is shift to make himself more comfortable.

“Why Kenneh, I get the distinct impression you don’t want me here.”

“Then you’re more observant than I thought,” Kenny snaps, raking a hand through his hair. It looks like he hasn’t washed it in a few days, judging from the way blond strands are matted to his forehead, some curling and tangling like he’s trying to grow dreads.

“God!” Cartman growls back, his fingers delving into a metal bowl I hadn’t seen before. His hand reemerges with a fistful of Cheesy Poofs. I wonder if he brought them over himself or if Kenny’s actually trying to play host, “What crawled up your poor ass? Must be pretty fucking big, ‘cause I know how you guys like to stick all kinds of things up there in the ghetto.”

“Can you leave?” Kenny says, stressing the last word.

I’m just about to crawl to my feet and save my friend from Cartman’s presence when the Nazi-in-training announces, “I bet I know what’s up there. Does he have a Jew fro and a big nose? Hmm? Or maybe he likes to sit in drum circles and smoke the ganja.”

Warily, Kenny eyes Cartman, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on! Either the Jewrat or the hippie is putting you in this mood. I’m trying to be a good fucking friend and find out which one to bitch out, but you’re not really helping when you just want to mope like a goddamned girl on her period.”

“I’m not-“ Kenny starts, but Cartman predictably cuts him off.

“You totally are, Po’boy. Acceptance is the first step.”

Kenny sighs, “Why are you trying to be a ‘good friend’ anyway? I thought the only person you care about is yourself.”

“True,” Cartman crosses his arms, nodding in agreement, “I do happen to be the most extraordinary being in the universe. However, you acting like a little bitch is inflicting boredom on mah psyche.”

What’s with the big words? Did his mommy buy him a dictionary for his birthday or something?

“You’re so full of crap.”

“No, no, I’m seriously. You need to take that giant fucking pole out of your ass, wipe the sand from your goddamned vagina, and act like Kenneh again. Otherwise you’re useless to me, and I have been experiencing a craving for chili lately. You know what ingredients go in chili?”

Kenny opens his mouth, but Cartman barrels right ahead, cutting him off, “Useless people, Kenneh. Useless people deserve to get cut up and eaten.”

“By you?”

 “Fuck no. I’d feed you to your drunkard parents. They need to the nourishment. Anyway, I don’t want your poor germs. I might catch something.”

We can only hope.

Kenny scowls, “You are such a prick, you do know that?”

“Fine. That’s just fine, Kenneh. If you don’t want to admit that you’re acting like Miss Prissy-Pants, I’m not going to stop you. Screw you, I’m-“

“It’s Kyle.”

I frown. I didn’t expect him to actually admit it. Why the hell is he talking about me with Cartman?

“Aha! It’s always the fucking Jew.”

“And Stan,” Kenny adds, giving him a sharp look, “And Kyle and Stan together.”

“I knew Marsh had something to do with this,” Cartman frowns, “That fucking hippie has more issues than even Freud managed to cover.”

“I didn’t know you knew anything about Freud,” the blond’s lips quirk in amusement.

“Aye! I’m intelli-gent, I’ll have you know. Freud’s that guy who talked about fucking your mother.”

Close enough.

Kenny skips the obvious joke about how Cartman’s mom would probably fuck him if he asked nicely, and stays quiet.

Cartman pauses, unsettled by our friend’s lack of response, “Wait. The Jew and the hippie are together? Like…together?”

Kenny nods, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Hey, join the club, Ken. I’ve got no clue either.

Actually, wait, I have a pretty good clue. I want nothing to do with Stan the douchebag Marsh.

Cartman’s exclamation takes me by surprise, “Aw, weak dude! That’s completely nauseating! Goddmanit, Kenneh. My cheesy poofs are coming back up.”

“What?” the blond blinks in surprise, “I thought you were…into that. You don’t still have a thing for Kyle, do you?”

The fat boy’s face looks distinctly green, “That was a passing phase, Kenneh. I thought we agreed never to mention that again. Ever.”

“But don’t you, I don’t know, think that the two of them getting together would be hot or something?” he mumbles, obviously not in the least turned on by the idea of Stan and I doing any such thing. I feel really bad. Kenny’s always turned on; being the one thing that turns him off is sort of akin to being hated.

“Aye! Just because I happen to like enacting a bit of ass poundage myself doesn’t mean I get off on the Jewrat and that douchey hippie being anal pirates together. Fuck, can you imagine? When their dicks collide it’s probably all rainbow farts and gold coins.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing,” Kenny says with a tired expression, “Don’t you get your rocks off just thinking about it?”

The fat boy shudders, rolls of flesh jiggling on his face and he says in disgust, “Eurgh. You don’t like Jews. Or hippies. It’s against nature.”

“But-“ he seems to really want to argue the point, but instead Kenny frowns, “Cartman, why the hell are you really here? Don’t pretend you’re trying to cheer me up.”

Cartman frowns, scrunching up his face like a pug, “Kahl told me you’re a fag.”

“I seriously doubt Kyle said it in those exact words. You’re so crude.”

“Since when has that been a crime, Po’boy? You don’t like it when they talk dirty?”

“Eric-“

“Let me finish!”

“No, assface. You let me finish. I don’t want to talk about Kyle and Stan. Or Stan and Kyle. Or any variation thereof. It’s always about the two of them, destined fucking butt buddies, and I’m so sick of it. I just want to go a day without hearing either of their names! You just had to bring it up!”

Cartman shifts uncomfortably, “Thought you worshipped those ass rammers.”

“They’re just fucking- they’re friends, okay? But I need some space.”

“You- erm, Kenneh, you liked the Jewfag?”

I watch his blond head snap up, “What? What makes you say that?”

“You just look…sad.”

And my stomach drops out of my chest. Goddamnit. No way can I go in there now. I shouldn’t even be listening to this.

“I- I like Kyle, sure,” Kenny nods slowly, “I thought maybe I might…well, you know? But we talked about it, and Kyle basically told me it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Oh. So you are a queer. I thought that-er, that person was lying about it. Kenneh?” Cartman asks tentatively.

“What?”

“If you want, I could kick him squah in the balls.”

Kenny chuckles, humorlessly, “No. Don’t do that. He-I-we had a good talk. I realized that I don’t like him for the right reasons. Maybe. That’s what I got out of it, anyway.”

“Sure you don’t want me to kick him in the balls?”

“I’m sure.”

Cartman turns back to the TV, and they sit in silence for a minute. Then he says, “Baseball sucks donkey cock. Wanna hit up the arcade?”

“Hell yes. Anything to get out of this apartment.”

Before they make it to their feet, I’m down the stairs.

It makes me sad. I kind of thought we’d insta-resolved things the other day. Maybe that’s kind of impossible. I’m not really good at giving people space. But now I’ve heard what Kenny said, and I realize that maybe I just have to give it to him anyway. When he’s ready to talk, he’ll call. I hope.

And if he fucking doesn’t I’ll march down to the mechanic shop and force him to talk to me again, and again, until he realizes that I was serious about not ever giving up on him, platonically. But for now, I know he’s not testing me. For now I know that he really felt something for me, even if he hid it. And that sucks, but I know that it means when we finally do get everything worked out, we’ll probably be even closer friends. Maybe it’s about time there was a new Super Best Friend in town.

God knows the old one’s been fired.

This love thing kind of sucks.

Wait. What did I just say?

Love?

No. It can’t be.

I told Stan that I thought I might be in love with him, but all it meant was that I like him. You know, like him as more than a friend. It didn’t have ANYTHING to do with love…even though the words just came out of my mouth.

Shit. I think back on our argument. Why the hell was it so important to me that he admits that he loves me more than Wendy? Why was love even a factor? I just wanted to be sure of where he stood on this dating thing, right?

Right?

No way do I fucking love Stan Marsh.

…

He’s a total dirtbag.

…

I think of his cobalt eyes and the curve of his hipbones. I think of the piercing pain in my chest when I walked in on him and Wendy, and all the jealous thoughts I’ve been having lately.

FUCK. Why didn’t I notice it before? Why would I be jealous if I didn’t want him? Why would I spend all my time thinking about him if he hadn’t wiggled his way into my heart?

It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be having this problem. I shouldn’t have to worry about things like fucking love.

I think of the way that stupid nickname, that single syllable word affected me.

And now I know.

I’ve been wrong all along. I said I needed him, but what I really meant was…

No. What I really meant doesn’t matter, because there’s no way I’m ever going to have anything to do with him again.

My cell phone rings, buzzing against my hip. My fingers trace the plastic cover, but I don’t pull it out. I know its Stan. Again.

I wonder if I can get his number blocked?

Because now I have no choice. I have to forget him.

The thought makes my chest hurt.

* * *

 

Work. I think work was developed specifically for the purpose of distracting people from their problems. Seriously. You live in the medieval era and you can’t stand the fact that the clergy has marked you as the devil? Go plant a fucking cornfield. You live in Alabama and your mom is actually your sister? Why not found an internet startup company? You’ll still be an incestuous byproduct, but hey, the McCormicks turned out okay, so you probably will too. And work will drown all your sorrows in the meanwhile.

At least, it’s supposed to. Apparently when you’re in love with a guy who happens to be the world’s biggest man whore, burying your head in accounting spreadsheets doesn’t actually make the pain go away. Sure, work helps, some.

Sadly it doesn’t help nearly as well as beer. I’ve been steadfastly avoiding alcohol for the past six days since dashing out of Stan’s apartment like Speedy Gonzalez. I’m trying to confront this running away problem of mine he claims I have. Which sucks, because I’ve been dying for a drop of something, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m refusing to give into temptation because I don’t want to disappoint Stan or because I want to prove him wrong. In fact, I can’t even tell if I’m thirsty because I’m trying to hide, or if it’s because I’m just honestly jonesing for a lager like a normal post-grad fuckup. Minus the grad, and emphasis on the fuckup.

So much for being intelligent, right? My problem solving skills have gone so far down the drain I’m pretty certain they’re irretrievable.

Plus, you want to know a secret? Get this. My trip to the local community college revealed a miracle. I only need nine credits to graduate. Nine. Which I shouldn’t really be that surprised over; that’s all it would have taken at my fancy shmancy university too. But I guess I’d forgotten, and had kind of expected to have to do an entire sixth year over at the CC. Now I know I just have to take three summer classes. I don’t even get to waste away this coming fall!

It’s kind of disappointing.

Oh, and terrifying.

I mean technically I’m in the real world now, but once I graduate, I’ve got no excuses. I’ll have to get an apartment. I’ll have to get a real job, and have a strategy to take my life in a new direction. I don’t do strategies. I find them limiting.

That’s a lie. I don’t find them anything, because I’m not the type of guy who ever has strategies. I don’t think of them at all, usually. Taking life one step at a time without thinking of the future. That’s me. That’s what I do.

My mother tells me I need to get over this fixation of mine. It’s her way of saying, ‘Suck it up, kiddo’. Except my mom would never say anything that way, so she has to use psychological terms like ‘neurosis’ and make me think I’m secretly losing my mind. Thanks, mom.

I hope Ike ends up as fucked up as I do, because if he doesn’t I’m going to run out of people to blame for things.

I finish work at five, and this time I don’t head to Craig’s bar. I want to; my feet even start walking in that direction. I have to strengthen my resolve to prove…whatever the hell it is I’m trying to prove, and not walk towards the comforting neon signs. Instead I climb in mom’s Kia, which I’m pretty sure she now only uses for grocery shopping on the weekends and whenever she has a new, enlightening cause that might initiate World War III. Or would it be World War IV at this point? I’ve lost track.

When I pull up in front of my house, I can’t even figure out how I got there. Actually, even work, my savior, is kind of a blur.

Life bites.

And the sad thing is that this time, there’s really nothing I can fucking do about it right now.


	23. I Forgot All The Rules My Rabbi Taught Me In The Old Schul

Somebody told me once that coming home from college is like coming home from war. Everything’s different, but it’s all the same too, and you can’t figure out why. And then you realize; you’re the one who changed.

I think that’s the most apt description I’ve ever heard. South Park hasn’t changed. It hasn’t become bigger, the stores I love haven’t closed, and the people I used to know for the most part still keep doing the same things they’ve done since the day I was born. It’s me. I’m the one who just can’t seem to fit in.

“Stop making excuses, Bubhie.”

“I’m not making excuses, Mom.”

“Then why don’t you want to take your little brother to practice?”

“I’m tired.”

My mother rolls her eyes, huffing, “That’s an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason.”

“No, it’s an excuse. What else have you got?”

“Mom, I’ve got work to do. I can’t take him to practice and wait around for him to finish so I can drive him back home.”

“Excuses.”

“Mom, work is a reason.”

“Excuses.”

You know what it feels like to bang your head against a wall, over and over again? I imagine it must be similar to this. Parents are an endless reservoir of therapy-inducing years.

“Fine, if you don’t love your brother enough to actually act like a mature adult, I’ll take him,” my mom vents, and I can tell she’s trying to fake tears to guilt me into caving, “I hope you’re happy, Kyle.”

No. I’m miserable. Which she knows. I mean, she’s the one who had to pull me out of the car a few minutes ago while I just sat outside, pondering why my life sucks balls.

Okay, so she can only guess at the reason, but she knows that I’m having a pretty crappy week. Which is why this whole commando mom routine is kind of obnoxious. I just got inside five minutes ago, and like I said, she’s the one who forced me to. I thought it was because she couldn’t stand me staring blankly at the steering wheel, but apparently it’s because Ike needs a ride to hockey practice.

Good old motherly love.

She just makes it so damned hard sometimes.

I don’t give into her guilt trip, despite her eyes boring disproving holes into the front of my chest. I mean, since I’m already wretched to begin with, having her disappointed in me shouldn’t be that much worse. And I really am tired. I also really do have work to do. Not that she believes me. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

One day I’m going to have an excuse to punch her in the face.

Not that I would ever. She’s my mom. I love her.

I clench my teeth and keep that chant going in my mind. Finally mom ends up tutting something inaudible and stalking out of the kitchen. I take note that she grabs my car keys on the way out. Guess she really isn’t giving up possession of the Kia.

Oh well. It’s not like I have anywhere to go. Screw work. I just want to crash in my bed and sleep for all eternity. Eat, sleep, and work. I could probably live a comfortably numb life if that’s all I ever do.

I hear mom rev the engine of the tiny car, burning rubber down the street with my poor little brother trapped inside. I feel kind of bad that he’s likely being subjected to one of mom’s uber-rants about how messed up her eldest child has become, but he’s used to it. Ike has an amazing ability to tune mom out that I just never got the hang of.

I climb up the stairs to my bedroom, collapsing on my comforter fully clothed. I’m wearing the black button down and gray slacks I donned for work early in the AM, which aren’t exactly comfy clothes, but exhaustion is sneaking up on me, blacking out my vision in the corners of my eyes. Have I ever been so tired before? I can’t recall. Everything’s going fuzzy and gray, the darkness creeping in.

My phone vibrates where I dropped it on my nightstand, but I ignore it. Chances are its mom, calling to ream me out for not filling up the gas tank. Whatever. She’ll call dad and bitch to him instead.

I fall into one of those half-sleep states. You know, when you’re aware of the stuff around you, but you’re not actually conscious? I don’t know how long passes, but I know that I’m still drained, a zombie, weakened and broken. It’s almost as bad as not having fallen asleep at all.

When the doorbell rings, I almost come to, groggy and deadened.

I must have imagined it, I think, and curl up tighter on the comforter, intent on getting back to meaningless dreams.

But it’s really hard to sleep when there are eyes watching you.

My eyes process what I’m seeing before my mind can catch up. Long black lashes. Color. Cobalt, like the stormy sea.

He stares at me, downright belligerent, with his face colored in shadows, “You’re not fucking giving up on me.”

“W-what?”

“You’re not, Kyle,” he reaches out, taking hold of the front of my shirt. He yanks me forward off the bed, and I only have a second to take in the warm, hard lines of his body before I’m lost in a kiss.

I must be fucking dreaming, because there’s no way this is actually happening.

In fact I really hope it’s not happening, because I have morning breath from my nap and even though this kiss is going straight to certain parts of my anatomy, I find it impossible to quell my anger at him.

Convinced I’m asleep, I arc my body away from him, breaking the kiss. All it really succeeds in doing is making me hit the back of my knees against the edge of the bed, so that I fall back on my butt.

“Stan,” I mumble, slipping my fingers over my mouth so that he can’t smell my horrendous breath or make any sneak kiss attacks anymore. You know, I’m thinking about this a little too much for a dream. He hasn’t dissolved from sight yet, and now he’s just glaring at me head on, mad as all get out.

“I called you like, fifty times, dude,” he says, and I realize that this is most definitely not a dream.

“I-uh- yeah,” I mutter back, unbalanced upon figuring out he really is in my room, “I ignored you. Um, how did you get in my house?”

“Your mom’s kept the spare key underneath the windowsill since we were three,” he replies shortly, more keen on glaring daggers at me than actually acknowledging his breaking and entering.

“Doesn’t mean it’s an open invitation.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I recall her saying ‘Stanley, come over whenever you like’,” he responds in a sardonic voice, and now he’s making fun of me, which isn’t cool. I just woke up. I’m barely coherent. And much as I hate to admit it, his lips on mine stole my breath away.

“I guess its practice for your future as a ninja,” I mutter, blinking in the vain hope that the room might get any brighter. The days are still so short that the sun’s disappeared by five, and my room’s got blackout blinds. Stan’s figure is painted in steel, black velvet, and midnight blue. Part of his cheekbone is highlighted by the green numbers illuminating my alarm clock, and he looks dangerous.

I stare at his lips and wonder. Did they really taste like fire? In my memory, even seconds ago, Stan’s mouth on mine burned, all the way down to my toes. Was that really how it felt?

I don’t even realize I’m up off the bed, crossing the distance between us. My mouth is on his, and god, it’s as hot as I remembered. I feel my lips give way to his, but he doesn’t even give me a second of the upper hand. Instead Stan pushes me back once more, slamming me hard against the bed. I fight against him, trying to regain control, but he only pushes me back so hard that I’m certain his grip on my wrists is bruising.

Jesusinheaven, I’m seeing stars. Fuck, there on the back of my eyelids, shimmering like a heat wave, they explode. I never really understood that whole ‘fireworks’ expression until now. And these aren’t fireworks; these are fucking all consuming bombs, like the nuclear apocalypse is unfolding in front of my eyes.

And I don’t care.

The second Stan’s mouth leaves me in this desperate gasp for breath; I make a sound like a wounded animal and practically lunge back towards his lips. It doesn’t matter that I’m pissed at him. If anything, it only makes me want to kiss him more, harder. He grinds his hips into mine, the length of his body so hot that it could very well be made of flame. I’m not going to lie, most of my focus is on how fucking horny I am right now, and well, yeah, I’m bucking my hips up towards his just to rub against that fire.

His tongue is ravaging my mouth, but not in the horrible shove-it-deep-as-it-goes sort of way. It varies from gentle massaging to full on conquering, and I’m giving in, moaning, thrusting my body against his like I have no power at all. And maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ve been kissed like this before, and maybe I haven’t, but right now isn’t the time for remembering, and it doesn’t even matter anyway. Nothing matters but Stan, straddling me, making noises I never thought were possible. Fuck, yeah.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, something’s protesting. But me, the parts that are most wholly me, are sick of protesting. I’m sick of this am-I-am-I-not game, and if making out with a guy who might just be the sexiest thing in this town according to my hard-as-hell dick destroys all my doubt, then so be it.

But…

I’m Kyle Broflovski. I can’t NOT think. Even when Stan’s running his fingers under my shirt, up and down my sides, toying with the waistband of my pants.

“God Kyle,” he groans into my mouth, and it’s in this husky, primal sort of voice I didn’t even know he possessed, “You’re getting me so fucking hot.”

My brain’s rebooting, working like an ancient computer. I’m slogging through the muddled synapses that ceased to work about ten minutes ago, I’m attempting to form something coherent.

His hand slides full into my pants, under my boxers, fingernails scraping against the skin that joins my leg to my hip. Pleasure laces through my body, stopping my mind dead on. Fuck thinking. All I want is for him to do that again.

I make a noise of protest when he extracts his fingers from my underwear, not caring how it sounds. He knows. His fingers are fumbling with the clip in the front of the damned work slacks, clumsy and slow. I feel them trace the zipper of the pants, brushing lightly over the bulge at the front.

I can’t stop myself when I cry out, “Stan, fucking now!”

And then his fingers yank the zipper down, the metal teeth falling away. My hard on is straining through the fabric of my boxers, but Stan doesn’t let it sit. His fingers open the slit like a window, and then he’s around me, touching me where I-GOD- needed it, and I’m driving my body up into his hand, because it’s the only thing that exists.

* * *

 

Afterwards. How do I describe it?

When it’s over; and by it I don’t mean sex, because as I told Stan, I draw the line at something going in my ass, and I think I have to adjust to the idea of putting something in his. Sure, my hormones were essentially screaming ‘screw it’ and begging me to get some. But, horny or not, I have a healthy aversion to pain. I didn’t even have to worry about disappointing Stan, because he’s apparently gone through the same sort of thoughts, the same sort of shit.

With Craig.

Ahem, anyway, when it’s all over, and my dress pants require a trip to the dry cleaner and my hand and Stan’s are sticky with the fruits of our…um, labor, we lay on top of my bed. I half expect the front door to slam at any second, my mother barreling into my room and screaming at me more about not taking Ike to his stupid hockey practice. Instead the house is deathly quiet. Maybe because my ears are still ringing from what just happened, from Stan’s oh-so-sexy moans.

“I didn’t know you could make noises like that,” I inform him, his rhythmic breathing beside me the only sign that someone else is in the room. Hell, he’s not even touching me now.

I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I didn’t know you could either, dude. You should have let me give you a blow job.”

I groan, “Do you know how much self control it takes to say no to that? Please, man, just let it go. Let’s not speak of it until,” my voice hitches, just imagining the proposition, “Until next time, okay?”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

Cocky bastard. He says that like it isn’t even a question.

“Probably,” I reply, “If you behave.”

“I always behave. In fact, I could show you exactly how good I am right now,” I feel him shift beside me, but I refuse to look. If I see those damnable cobalt eyes, I might just crack and give in. I might let him blow me. I might let him fuck me. I might let him do anything he wants to me, and I have to be the one in control right now.

“I’ll pass.”

He pouts, but I ignore him.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What?” he settles back onto his side, smelling of sweat and cologne. It’s probably weird, but I like the intermingled scents. I like that I get the chance to smell them. I might very well be a freak.

“I’m happy, right now. Like, really happy. I feel like my life has been turning into a soap opera. I feel like the drama’s been getting out of hand, and right now, everything just stopped.”

“It hasn’t stopped. It probably hasn’t even started. Drama’s just like…massive feelings. Which I’ve always had for you. And I probably always will,” a smile tugs at my lips when he says this, but I listen quietly, “You know that. It’s just…the drama began when you found about them. When other people butt in. When other people get involved; that’s when drama starts. And you know if this thing, this you and me thing continues, other people are going to get involved.”

I sigh, “I know. I hate feeling like my life’s part of the fucking Soap Network.”

“Dude, honestly? We live in South Park. Life’s never been normal. Life’s never going to be. I think this, what we’ve got? It’s like love. And love’s the most normal thing we can have.”

“Love,” I repeat, tasting the word.

“Yeah, love. I don’t want to be pushy, Kyle, but do you love me?”

Uh. Shit.

“Are you going to start sounding like a fucking girl on me, dude?”

Okay. So not the right answer. But I don’t know what else to say. I can’t bring my mouth to form the words it needs. I’m a coward. Or I’m just not ready. Right now, feels like the same exact thing.”

Stan chuckles, but I can hear the discomfort in that laugh, “You’re right. Next thing you know I’m going to ask to cuddle.”

“Cuddling is manly,” I protest jokingly.

“Sure. Wen-“ his voice falls short.

“Wendy,” I complete the word for him, “Wow. I forgot about her.”

“Me too,” I finally turn, only to see shame color Stan’s face. He sits up, “I got to go.”

I don’t ask why. Not because I know, just because it seems insensitive to ask. In an ideal world, Stan’s going to go break it off with his girlfriend right now. Actually, wait, in an ideal world, Stan wouldn’t have to. I’d have some perfect shiksa to introduce to my mom, and I never would have just experienced what might just be the best moment of my life. Which I plan to top very, very soon.

I lie on the bed while Stan stumbles up, adjusting his pants and smoothing out his rumpled shirt. He’s wearing an old Park Regional High School Baseball Club jersey and red and white track pants. He looks completely fuckable, but I stay still, sated for the moment.

“You’re going to come back, right?”

“Tonight?” he turns to me, and I can’t help but notice he’s avoiding my gaze a little.

“No,” I groan, pushing myself up onto my elbows, “Soon, I guess? We need to talk.”

“That sounds really gay.”

“What you just did to me was really gay,” I smirk at him, and I’m completely satisfied when he blushes slightly.

“Kyle,” he breathes, and then in one rapid motion, leans down and steals a kiss. I don’t even have time to respond. He rushes of my room like the wind, like he was never there.

Only I have this huge grin on my face to prove that he was.


	24. You Said You’d Never Have Regrets, Jesus Is There Someone Yet Who Got That Wish

Apparently my mother views grocery shopping as a form of torture. To get back at me for not taking Ike out yesterday, she’s sent me to run all her errands today. I came home from work, exhausted once more, and she wordlessly passed me a list and pushed me out the door.

Meanwhile, Stan’s not answering any of the text messages I’ve sent him. And okay, it’s only actually been one, because I don’t want to come off like a chick, but still. It would be nice if he would send me a giving-you-a-hand-job-was-a-life-changing-experience-I-don’t-at-all-regret text. Because I regret it. Well, I regret not letting him go down on me, anyway. I even had a wet dream about it last night. Which might be why I’m so antsy for him to message me back, so we can get down to the fun stuff.

Yes, I’m a sex-starved pervert. I’m a twenty three year old boy. What do you expect?

So anyway, I’m pacing the aisles of the grocery store trying to find fucking fabric softener when I don’t even know how to use it. I’m seething mad, staring at blue, green, and purple bottles with names like ‘Cuddly Soft’ that might as well be in Arabic for all I know about them.

Then I hear crunching. Like someone’s munching on chips the next row over. Pissed off enough at my mom and Stan that I really just want to yell at someone, I drop my eyes from the shelf and make my way into aisle three. Colorful bags of tortilla chips nearly distract my eyes from the perpetrator, who I’m prepared to ream out for eating chips without paying. I’m good at the whole moral indignation thing; it’s genetic.

Sadly it turns out to be the one person in the world who won’t care if I come flying at them like a bat out of hell. So instead I say in a calm voice, “Surprise, surprise. Who else would be stuffing his face in the chip aisle?”

Cartman groans, “Suck my balls, Jew.”

“Don’t you know that you’re technically shoplifting?”

“And I care why?”

“Because you’re a cop, and as such obligated to be a law abiding citizen as a role model for future generations.”

Cartman rolls his eyes, “I don’t see any future generations. All I see is a scrawny Jew on the rag.”

“Promise me you’ll never procreate.”

“God, do you have to be such a whiny bitch? Kenny shoplifts.”

“Kenny’s a poor asshole,” I mutter, “And you like him.”

Immediately, Cartman’s face reddens, “I do not. Take that back.”

“Um. No. Deal with it,” I glance down at my shopping cart, “Dude, what’re you doing in town anyway? Something going on tonight?”

“Clyde Donovan’s throwing a party,” Cartman says smugly, “I happen to have an invitation.”

“I see.”

Stupid Clyde Donovan didn’t invite me to any stupid party. Whatever. It’s a work night, and I’m technically not drinking right now to prove a point. But still.

“Wanna come, Jew?”

I stare at Cartman, and okay, the alcohol resolution can only hold out for so long.

“Yeah, fuck it. Let’s go.”

Looks like mom might have to wait for her damned groceries. Serves her right.

“We’ve got to buy beer.”

“You’ve got to buy beer,” I correct, “I wasn’t invited.”

“Are you going to Jew me out, Kyle?” Cartman’s eyes narrow, “Because I will kill you, and no one will ever, ever find your body.”

I shudder, believing him. It’s hard not to. Even though I’ve been friends with him for twenty three years, or maybe because of it, the guy’s a damned psychopath.

“Okay. We’ve got to buy beer,” I squeak. Better poor than dead, after all.

* * *

 

The party is banging.

Cartman immediately moves in on an attractive looking boy that I don’t recognize. I predict he’ll get laughed at in about point oh two seconds, but I leave him to find beer.

Instead I find Wendy. A rather intoxicated Wendy. Standing next to the keg, looking like a million bucks except for the dopey, wasted expression on her face.

“Kyle!” Wendy cries when she sees me, happy as a puppy dog.

“Hi, Wendy. I thought you worked nights,” I say, too blunt. Then I realize that might not have been very polite, as Wendy looks positively crestfallen, “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

She brightens, “I have the night off.”

I grab a red cup from Clyde’s kitchen counter. He may be all super educated, but he still lives with his parents. That gives me the slightest bit of smug satisfaction, I’ll admit.

I start downing beers as Wendy gushes all about her and Stan, and her job, and her and Stan, and her friends, and her and Stan. It makes me mad at Stan for not breaking it off with her yet. I mean doesn’t giving each other hand jobs mean that we’re like, together now? I mean, he said once that if we ended up as a couple we’d be mutually exclusive. And okay, so we haven’t talked about it yet, but…I’m fucking jealous as hell.

I want to pour my beer all over Wendy’s glossy black hair and tell her to stay away from my man. Which is really not like me, and I don’t appreciate the whole idea of my having a man, but I do like having a Stan. Who is mine. Now. At least I think so.

He still hasn’t answered my text. I excuse myself from Wendy and try calling him. He doesn’t pick up.

Maybe he’s taking a nap or something.

Yeah. That’s got to be it.

I make my way back to Wendy, who has been coerced by the host himself to take some shots. Cartman’s there too, cheering and calling her a coward, a skank, and a goddamned hippie. Typical Cartman insults. I notice he’s thoroughly sloshed, so I play catch up with a bottle of tequila that makes my stomach churn because it smells so strong. After five shots in quick succession, I realize that I haven’t drank in a few weeks, and that downing so much liquor in such a short period of time might not have been such a good idea.

Clyde pours a beer down my throat. I feel like I might puke.

I am saved when Wendy, attempting to shotgun a Natty Ice, does.

Clyde’s kitchen now smells like vomit. The result is he abandons trying to force me to drink in a rabid attempt to clean up. He is too sloshed to actually do anything other than make more of a mess, and instead evacuates the kitchen.

Cartman looks thoroughly grossed out, possibly because his jeans are spattered with chunky Wendy-hurl.

“I think we should take her home,” I tell him, watching as Wendy apologizes profusely to a wall.

“Yeah okay. Move it ho-“ I send Cartman a reprimanding look, and he corrects himself, “I mean sweetpea.”

He turns slightly green at the words ‘sweetpea’, which brings about the question of why he thought the term was acceptable, but whatever. Nauseous Cartman is hilarious.

Unfortunately Wendy has finely tuned instincts which tell her never to listen to Cartman. The result is that she bolts from the room.

Cartman frowns at her, “Fuck this Jew. I try to be nice, and the bitch turns tail and runs. Obviously that whole honey draws more flies thing is total crap. You go after her.”

He then leaves the kitchen, possibly in search of some sucker who will have sex with him. I notice he’s only going after blond guys tonight. I wonder what that means. I think I know, but then I think about Kenny, which makes me feel bad. Both for setting Cartman after him and for being a dickwad myself.

I find Wendy in Clyde’s bathroom, defending her position from a very drunk couple who obviously wants to have shower sex.

“Mine,” she yelps at them, like a fierce little Chihuahua.

I usher the couple towards Clyde’s bedroom and then peek my head in, “Wendy?”

“Kyle? Go away.”

“Um. No.”

“I said go away.”

Instead I scoot inside, finding her hugging the toilet. She’s been puking, if the brownish liquid filling the basin is any indication. And the retching noises I heard when I was still outside.

“Wendy, I’m going to get you home.”

“No. I don’t want to go home with you. Call Stan. I want Stan.”

I dig my cell out of my pocket and try calling Stan. I’ve got three missed calls from my mother, but I ignore him. Stan doesn’t pick up.

I try again, “Wendy, let me drive you home.”

“No. My mom can’t see me like this. I want to go to Stan’s.”

I try calling him again. Nothing.

After four more phone calls, I say, “Wendy, Stan’s not picking up. Come on, you can’t fall asleep in the bathroom. Someone might pee on you or something.”

“Ew.”

“Come with me,” I try to lift her by her arms, but she doesn’t budge.

“No! I don’t’ want to go with you.”

I sigh and sit beside her. She’s looking slightly more coherent now, so I ask, “Why not?”        

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Kyle, but since you’ve come back to South Park, Stan’s changed,” Wendy bites back a scathing laugh, looking at me through bleary eyes, “Or maybe I should say reverted.”

“What?” I ask, confused at the total bitterness in her voice, “Wendy-“

“Oh!” she glances up at me, flustered, drunk, “I didn’t mean it was your fault. Well, actually, I did. But…I mean, you haven’t done anything. Have you?”

Now her gaze is hopeful, like I can tell her that I’ve done something totally horrible that has turned her boyfriend into…well…wait. She didn’t explain that part.

“Um. I don’t think so. Reverted how…?” I prompt, reaching out an arm to keep her from slumping down into a spot of vomit that missed the toilet.

“I don’t know,” her voice breaks. Tears well up in her eyes.

Shit.

I never know what to do with crying girls. She begins babbling.

“The way Stan was in grade school…so…immature. So…idealistic…all that stuff…it was fine when he was a little boy. I liked that about him. But then we met up again, and he was so…caring, sensitive, and kind,” she smiles softly in remembrance, “Everything about him was just perfect. He became a man. And then the second you returned it’s like…he’s back to being a boy again. He’s so unsure of himself. He’s always second guessing everything. And I feel like it has something to do with you.”

Oh.

“And…” Wendy sobs in a voice so soft that I have to bend down near her vomit stained lips to hear her, “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

Guilt washes over me in waves.

“Um. I’ll try calling Stan again. Actually,” I look at her, “Can I borrow your phone?”

I have to dig it out of her purse, which I find in the foyer, still too close to the noise of the party. I’m staggering from being too fucked up. The room is spinning.

Stan finally picks up, “Hello?”

“Stan? Um, it’s Kyle,” I say, and I wonder if he knows that already. I mean, I called his phone a million times. He wouldn’t pick up once for me. Yet he has no problem picking up when he thinks its Wendy. I’m jealous, and I know it.

“Oh.”

I can’t figure out why his voice sounds…well, annoyed. He sounds irritated that he has to be talking to me.

“Stan?”

He sighs, “Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Your girlf-I mean…Wendy. She’s really drunk. Um. She doesn’t want me to bring her back to her house, ‘cause…” I trail off. He knows why. Even though Wendy is a capable, working woman, she still lives with her parents. I doubt they’re properly equipped to see their little angel dribbling vodka-flavored puke all over the carpet.

“Is she okay?”

“Just a bit weepy.”

Last time I glanced at her she was still sobbing into her hands, blubbering about some puppy she didn’t get when she was eight. I guess Stan and I aren’t the only ones who get her panties in a bunch.

“Yeah, she’s kind of an emotional drunk.”

Kind of like the guy who crushed a glass in my kitchen one time.

“Bring her on over,” Stan says.

“Okay, and Stan?”

I don’t get to ask my question. He’s already hung up.

Jerk.

I feel my temper spiraling out of control. What the hell is going on? Why is ignoring me? So I’m not an expert at gay sex or anything, but I know Stan. I know him. He wasn’t lying when he said it was okay that we didn’t fuck. He wasn’t! He’s not a very good liar in the first place. So what the hell is it?

Against my better judgment I grab my car keys. We have three near accidents on the way there, one with a very stubborn telephone pole that kept moving up and down the street. Or maybe that was my vision.

I help Wendy stagger up the stairs to Stan’s apartment. When I knock on the door, he answers, dressed only in blue boxers and a tight black t-shirt.

I have flashes back to him, in my bed, with his hands down my pants.

Shit.

He takes Wendy from me, carrying her princess-style to the couch. She passes out instantly. After he sets her down he turns back to the door. He looks surprised to see me still standing there. Like he expected me to leave.

I’m me, so instead of saying something like, can we talk, I say, “What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

Wordless, Stan walks over to the door, taking me outside and closing it gently so he won’t wake up his precious girlfriend. His eyes are blazing when he looks up at me, “My problem?”

“Yeah. You fucking wouldn’t answer any of my calls or texts. You look fucking mad to see me!”

“You sound like a chick.”

I wince. Yeah. I do. I expected that.

“Well what do you want? You do-that-with me and then want me to disappear or something? I thought…”

“You thought what?” he demands.

I can’t say it. I can’t say what I thought, because I’m the biggest pussy that ever lived.

“Look, Kyle. Last night was a mistake. I know now.”

“Know what?” I practically scream. My heart’s dropped to my toes, like a rock. I feel like I might suffocate. His face is a cold mask, one I don’t recognize.

“That you could never love me. I get that. There’s no way you could ever really feel that way about me.”

“What?” I’m so beyond confused. Is this because I said the bet was off the other night? I want to ask, but I’m too drunk. My knees feel like they’re giving out from under me, turning to jelly. I don’t understand what Stan’s saying.

He just shakes his head, “You smell like a brewery dude. Go home. Go to sleep. I’ve got to take care of Wendy.”

He slams the door, leaving me standing on his welcome mat.

What the hell just happened? Why does Stan think I don’t love him? Why? Aside from the fact that he has the emotional maturity of a five year old?

And then I remember.

_“Yeah, love. I don’t want to be pushy, Kyle, but do you love me?”_

_“Are you going to start sounding like a fucking girl on me, dude?”_

I avoided the question.

Okay, so maybe I have the emotional maturity of a five year old too. Shit. Even just now, when he looked at me, when he yelled at me, I couldn’t say anything. My thoughts were, are too muddled.

God, I can’t even remember what day it is.

And then it hits me.

I dig my cell out of my pocket. What day is today?

It’s two in the morning. April ninth.

Which makes the night Stan came over April seventh. April seventh, as in the last day of our bet.

Fuck. No, no, no.

I remember Stan telling me to fall in love with him.

I should have told him.

I never wanted to be that person. You know, that person with scars on their heart at only twenty three. I wanted to be one of the normal ones. One of the people who didn’t get messed up till their mid thirties, at least.

Screw that. I’m going to tell him. I’m not going to lose him because of a stupid misunderstanding. He needs to man up, stop being a pansy bitch, and listen.

I start pounding hard on the door, so loud that all the neighbors must hear me. No answer.

I pound even harder, yelling, “Stan, open the fucking door!”

Someone’s going to call in a noise complaint, but I still don’t care. I hit my fists as hard as I can, feeling the skin of my knuckles begin to tear, “Stan!”

The doors swings back, and I almost slug Wendy in the face. She has on her most stern look as she says, “Kyle, you’re being noisy.”

A tremor crosses her face, and she promptly bends over and pukes.

All over my shoes.


	25. I’m The Friend You Need, But Can’t Be Trusted

The day after my drunken escapades at Stan’s apartment, I decide that I have to fix this mess. I know the bet was that we can’t be friends without love, but how stupid is that? I’m starting to think I put up with this game because as it was, Stan had the upper hand.

I thought that I’d fucked up our whole relationship when I went to college, and I was desperate to fix it. Kenny called it best when he said I felt guilty, even after I was told things were okay. I can’t live with stuff being unresolved, and when Stan proposed the bet, things still felt that way.

Maybe it’s a result of having seen his orgasm face, but I don’t feel accountable anymore. At least, not about leaving him. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but everybody does.

Er, at least I hope everybody does. It would really suck to be the only messed up freak in the world.

Nah. I’m not the only one. Spending so much time with Kenny, who’s like a tiger trapped in a cage, and Cartman, who’s some lost little kid, has taught me that. And Stan, of course. Stan, who burns like a star, like fire, but just can’t stop himself from engulfing everyone else in his flames.

Funny that it took the friends I left behind to teach me that I’m human.

It’s time I stop thinking that my one mistake should dictate how my relationship with Stan runs.

And…I care about him. Deeply. I’m not going to let that go just because he put a deadline on my love confession.

I don’t even care that I sound like some kind of bad emo record. I’m going to…uh…get my man.

I’ll just never say that out loud.

The only problem is, when I go to Stan’s apartment after work, there’s nobody home. I know he’s off work by now, but there’s every possibility that he’s out with Wendy, or wherever. I don’t bother trying his cell, because I think he’s got me blocked. Every time I call it goes straight to voicemail.

I think about calling Wendy. Then I remember my puke stained shoes. I really loved those shoes. I spent the morning over cereal complaining to my mother about them; although in that version I attributed Wendy’s sudden upchuck to bad sushi. My mother’s not quite ready to stomach the idea of me as a party animal. Or I’m not ready to let her.

On instinct, I end up in front of the one place I’m pretty sure Stan’s not at.

His house.

I know the way to the Marsh’s like the back of my hand. Which is kind of a funny saying, because if somebody chopped off my hand and showed it to me, theoretically I’m not certain that I’d recognize it. So maybe I should say I know the way to the Marsh’s better than the back of my hand. I’ve spent countless nights there; eating dinner, sleeping over, playing video games. You name it, and I probably did it at Stan’s house.

He told me once that he goes home every Sunday for family dinners. It’s not a Sunday, and he’s probably not here. But I knock anyway.

After about a minute, I hear footsteps. The door swings back.

“Oh, Kyle, honey. Hello,” Stan’s mom smiles winningly at me.

Let me tell you something about Sharon Marsh. She’s like, one of the sweetest women I know.

Okay, so maybe she’s not the brightest crayon in the box. I mean, she kind of fucked with Stan’s head pretty good. On the other hand, I think it’s sort of parents’ jobs to irrevocably screw with their kid’s minds. I’m not going to say Stan should have dealt with it better; he did the best he could. I’m just saying that despite the fact that Stan’s mom and dad can be totally lame to him, Mrs. Marsh is still pretty cool to me.

“Hi Mrs. Marsh,” I say politely, “How are you?”

“I’m good, sweetie. How have you been?”

“Okay,” I taste the word like a lie. Lying to authority figures, while not exactly hard for me always makes me feel rotten.

Especially when they’re not my mom, and haven’t done anything to deserve being lied to.

Saying I’m okay is just a little white lie, and I know if I said life sucked hard I’d just make her worry, but still. She’s just so damned nice.

And she makes really awesome pies. Not that her pie-making skills have anything to do with…well, anything. I’m just saying, her apple pies are epic.

“Why don’t you come in, and I can make you some hot cocoa?” she suggests brightly.

At the ‘why don’t you come in’ part I plan on turning her down and flat out asking if she knows anything about Stan’s whereabouts. But the hot cocoa part reels me in.

Mrs. Marsh’s hot chocolate is legendary. It’s almost as good as her pies. I’m not a chick, so I don’t get giggly and orgasmic about chocolate, but this stuff is killer.

“Sure,” I shrug, trying to look nonchalant, while inside screaming ‘YES’ like a little kid.

I follow Sharon inside; treading over the familiar threadbare carpet of the living room, past Stan’s dad snoring on a new looking LA-Z Boy. The TV’s blaring a news show, which explains Randy Marsh’s snores. He never was one for keeping up with the neighborhood.

A midget in a swimsuit is discussing the upcoming march on the Mayor’s office, organized by none other than my mother. She’s highly offended by the lack of dog parks in our town, or some bullshit like that. I don’t know. We’re not exactly on speaking terms right now. It’s more of my mother shooting me frosty glances across the dinner table and questioning my life choices, while I ignore her and make snarky remarks to my little brother. Who knew mom could get her panties in such a bunch over not taking Ike to hockey practice?

Oh wait. I knew. And yet I did it anyway. Sometimes being Sheila Broflovski’s son sucks.

Mrs. Marsh leads me straight into the kitchen, which is as homey as I remember. It’s my favorite kitchen in the world; stocked with all the sweets and non-kosher food my mother denied me as a child. Stan and I used to sit at the kitchen table when we were freshmen in high school and joke about which chick we’d bang first in our womanizing careers. We were still talking about the same thing when we were juniors, ironically enough. I was kind of a late bloomer. Stan was…well, I’m not really sure what his excuse was. Maybe, if he ever speaks to me again, I’ll ask.

When I’m settled at that same kitchen table with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, Sharon puts her hands on her hips, “So, Kyle, honey. What’s wrong?”

I stare at the gooey skin beginning to form between the chocolate and melting marshmallows in the mug rather than meeting her eyes. Am I that easy to read?

“Um, nothing Mrs. Marsh.”

She makes a ‘tsk’ing sound and says, “You never were a very good liar, kiddo.”

Wow. Sweet and perceptive. And kind of scary, what with the way she’s narrowing her eyes at me. I didn’t know Stan’s mom was such a tough cookie. Although I guess she has to be to put up with Stan’s dad’s antics.

“Okay. Well, I was just wondering if…uh, if you’ve seen Stan today? Or maybe know where he is?”

Sharon purses her lips, and I feel the need to babble overwhelm me, “I mean, I’ve tried calling him like fifty times, and I think we kind of got in a fight so he’s mad? Maybe? I understand if you don’t want to get in the middle of it though.”

I finally take a breath. Wow. I don’t know when the last time I talked that fast was.

“Kyle, Stan’s in New York.”

I nearly choke on my cocoa, and yelp, “What? I mean- what the fuck?”

She frowns, and I murmur a quick apology for my French.

But WHAT???

“He received his acceptance to New York University for graduate school, so he’s out looking for an apartment and touring the campus,” she smiles fondly, “He’s such a clever boy.”

“Er, yeah.”

Clever my ass. What the fuck is he doing in New York? Without even telling me? Has he even been to New York before? He’s going to get mugged! Raped! Killed! And then I’ll end up telling him squat, because he’ll be dead in some alley with a dildo shoved up his ass.

I really hate Stan right now.

The worst part is I can’t let Mrs. Marsh know. I take a calm sip of the hot chocolate, although I think my real feelings are kind of belied by my trembling fingers, and say, “Oh.”

“Was it a really bad fight?” Sharon asks, her eyes sympathetic. She’s so maternal at this moment, and it kind of makes me wonder why she had to be such a total bitch and make Stan into a philandering asshole who decided to go live in New fucking York.

Suddenly even the best hot chocolate in the world tastes like ash. I stand up.

“We’ll make up. Thanks, Mrs. Marsh. I really appreciate the hot cocoa.”

“But you’ve barely made a dent in it,” she protests.

“I know,” I shrug apologetically, “I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”

I make my way out of Stan’s parents’ house out into the snow. Stupid fucking snow. I hate this town. I hate this state. And I hate NYU. I’ve been the city a few times on weekend trips with friends from my old university. It’s not that great. Who decided to make New York part of the Union anyway? Do we really need the empire state building and the statue of liberty? Okay, so there are some pretty good bars in SoHo, but still.

Goddamnit. Why is it that every time I try to make amends with Stan, the universe insists on interfering? Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe we’re really not supposed to be together. Maybe this whole damned shebang is fucked.

Fine. If that’s what the universe wants, I give up. No more Stan.

Not as friends, not as lovers; I want shit from him now. Even if he comes groveling to me, I’m not going to listen.

I kick the snow. Screw this. I’m going home.

* * *

 

Somewhere around midnight, I’m brooding. I may be a recalcitrant asshole, but I’m not actually giving up on Stan. I thought earlier that I’d wait. Give him time. Let Stan simmer down and maybe then try to talk to him. I mean why do things have to be so urgent?

Then I realized; things have been slow for so long that urgent is the only way to be. I’m…

I’m miserable without him.

I’m miserable thinking he hates me.

You know what? I’ve spent the last four months in South Park, just plain miserable.

The only time I really can pinpoint being happy is with Stan.

I debate the idea that I even deserve happiness. Every time I try to achieve anything, I seem to fall flat on my face.

I fail.

I fuck up.

I’m biting my chapped lips so hard that they bleed. I don’t know if I can take Stan rejecting me. It’s just going to be a reminder of how much I suck. But…

A knock sounds off on my bedroom door.

Worried mom’s decided that midnight is the ideal time to have one of her mother-son-I’m-Right-You’re-Wrong talks I creep over and hiss, “Who is it?”

“Open the fucking door, artard.”

Oh. It’s Ike. I live to face off against the Sheila-monster another day.

I let my brother into my room, “Don’t you have school tomorrow, genius?”

Ike shrugs, “So?”

“Healthy minds need a good night’s rest,” I mimic our mom’s voice.

“I’m a prodigy,” Ike shrugs, “It’s not like I’ll fail if I stay up all night playing video games.”

Ouch. That hurt. That was a total jab at the time I failed pre-calc because I was playing WoW with Stan and Cartman every night.

I do the brotherly thing and hit him on the head.

“Hey! Violence isn’t the answer, dude,” he whines.

“Thanks, Gandhi,” I snap, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“God, Kyle. You used to be fun. What crawled up your butt and died?”

“Mmkay, I think this little brotherly seminar is at an end. Get out,” I scowl, “Short stuff.”

“I am not short,” Ike protests. And he’s not. He’s just shorter than me; a fact I take immense pride in.

“Right,” I snort, “You can’t even reach the pedals in the car. That’s why mom won’t let you get your license.”

Ike rolls his eyes. He’s a nearly a senior in high school. He has a right to be offended. It’s not his fault he started young, and can’t do any of the things his friends can. Like drive. And buy porn.

“Didn’t I tell you to get out?” I query, since he’s still standing there in his plaid pajamas, courtesy of our overbearing mother. When I went to college, I’d never bought a single article of clothing for myself.

Might be why the freedom was so overwhelming that I flunked out, hunh?

“Yeah, but I don’t listen to you,” Ike replies pointedly, “I wanted to ask you something.”

I sigh. The brat’s got balls, “Shoot.”

“There’s this kid in school who’s making fun of me-“

“What are you in kindergarten still? Kick him where it counts.”

Ike glares at me, “If you’d listen to everything I had to say, maybe you’d know I already thought of that. I am a hockey player. I know how to defend myself.”

My little brother is a little burly. He might be as good a fighter as me. He’s just not exceptionally witty. I’m also better looking.

I might be lying, but give it to me. It’s not easy growing up with a child prodigy; I have to beat him at something.

“I give you permission to continue.”

“Like I need your permission, dillweed,” he rolls his eyes for the second time in the last five minutes, “So he’s like, the son of the principal. And if I kick his sorry ass, he’s going to go running to his pop. When I diss him, he cries. It makes me feel all guilty, and stuff.”

“Is that all?”

“No. The guy’s been hitting on my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Could you stop interrupting, asshole?”

“Fine,” I hold up my hands in defeat.

But really, since when has my little brother gotten himself a girl?

“Actually, I’m done,” Ike admits, “What do I do?”

I’m a little warm and fuzzy. Having a brother has it’s bad points, like when he scores higher on his PSAT’s than you when he’s a sixth grader (not my fondest high school memory), but I kind of enjoy getting to play big brother.

“Kick his ass,” I recommend.

“But I’m going to get in trouble!” Ike’s eyes widen. Even though he can hold his own, he has an unnatural fear of mom that I shared in my younger, pre-independence years. Maybe I can break him of it early.

"So?” I shrug, “Dude. You’re brave. Suck it up, let the kid go cry to the principal, and then do that thing where you turn the tables and make it all his fault in mom’s eyes. You’re pretty good at that, if I recall.”

He’s damned good at it. Ike’s made me the scapegoat for his pranks since he could talk. I’ve got a lot of pre-Stan experience at being the Bad Guy.

“What if he cries?”

I shake my head, “Ike, if you’ve asked the kid to stop being a douche, and he won’t, and he cries if you dish it back, how else are you going to stop him? Talking to him doesn’t work. Dissing him doesn’t work. You can’t just tolerate him anymore. Maybe getting physical won’t work either, but it’ll make you feel better.”

Not the best brotherly advice, I’ll admit.

“I don’t know…”

“Well then here’s an idea. Why don’t you figure it out? You’re the genius.”

Ike blinks, “I am, aren’t I?”

“Good job, moron.”

My little brother looks up at me and says, “Thanks, Kyle.”

“No problem,” I beam. One problem solved tonight. If anything, I made him feel better, bad advice or no. It’s nice to finally do something right.

After Ike leaves, I realize that there was some good advice in there. Be brave. Suck it up.

That’s what I have to do, too.

I’ve put off telling Stan the truth for long enough. So I pick up the phone.


	26. The Person Falling Here Is Me

The first time I call Stan, he doesn’t pick up.

The second time I call Stan, nothing. Fucking bastard. I know he’s awake. He’s never asleep before one, minimum. He’s just avoiding me. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to keep calling until I hear his voice or the world ends with me waiting for it.

The third time I call Stan, I’m already sick of listening to his voicemail. Hi, you’ve reached Stan Marsh. I’m a total douchebag who doesn’t appreciate the effort my friend is making to get in touch with me. I hate him. This resolve thing is already wearing thin, but I don’t know if it’s annoyance or fear that just maybe he’ll never answer that’s luring me into giving up.

The sixth time I call, which I’d already decided would be the last time, the phone clicks right before voicemail kicks in, and he’s there. There, at the other end, screeching, “You are such a fucking asshole. Do you know what time it is?”

“Twelve thirty?” I ask, confused. I mean, I kind of figured he didn’t want to talk to me, but he sounds a little too hostile. He could have kept on ignoring me.

But he didn’t.

Inwardly, I can’t quash a celebration. I get to talk to him. Finally! As long as he doesn’t hang up before I can get another word out.

“Kyle? Oh. It’s you. Two thirty,” he groans, “I’m in New York.”

“Uh. Yeah. I know,” I grimace. Sounds like he didn’t check his caller ID before talking.

Does that mean I’m not a fucking asshole anymore?

Somehow I think not, ‘cause whoops, forgot about those pesky time zones. New York has a two hour difference from South Park.

“I was this close to just turning the goddamned phone off,” he exhales, his breathing growing steadier, less irritated, “I have an orientation meeting at six.”

“I…sorry, dude. I didn’t think I’d get you,” I’m berating myself in my head. Yeah, Kyle. Great way to begin a conversation; piss him off.

“You didn’t think you’d get me after calling six times?” he demands incredulously, “Dude, Kyle, what do you even want?”

Is this a trick question?

“I want to talk to you. You’ve been ignoring my calls,” I accuse. Trying to light an indignant fire in my belly, rouse some righteousness, and all that. It doesn’t really work, and I end up just sounding tired.

“What calls?”

Oh, so that’s how we’re going to play it?

“I called you like thirty times this afternoon, douchebag.”

Stan’s dead quiet. Then he says, “Did you leave any messages?”

“Uh, no. Should I have?”

I didn’t think of it, mostly because of my developing hate-filled relationship with his voicemail.

“I was on a plane this afternoon. My phone was turned off.”

Wow. He really knows how to kick a man when he’s down, doesn’t he? Why didn’t I think of that? Stupid, stupid, stupid. My cheeks are flaming, and I’m glad he can’t see it.

“Oh…uh…I guess I thought you were pissed about last night,” I say bluntly, because I’ve decided to be brave and will hate myself if I start stammering like some kind of idiot. What I really want to say is, ‘Oh. I thought you didn’t like me anymore.’ How pathetic is that?

“I was,” he says, and my heart stops, “You were drunk off your ass and telling me I’m the worst person to walk the earth.”

Those so weren’t my exact words. I’m constantly being misquoted.

“Not my proudest moment,” I concede, because I doubt he’ll be impressed by my keen recollection of the nasty things I did say to him, “It’s hard to form a cohesive argument when you’re three sheets to the wind.”

“I get that,” Stan says, and the tone of his voice makes me think he must, really. We’ve all been there, right?

“Which is why I’m not so mad anymore. But dude, can we talk tomorrow? I don’t mean to be a bitch, but I’ve got a really early wake up call.”

“Sure,” I agree, even though inside I’m kind of convinced he’s never going to talk to me again. He’s just fucking with me, because I tricked him into picking up with my late night calls, and now he’s even more pissed and…I’m letting my imagination run away with me. I really need to quit that.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, and before I can even tell him goodbye, the call disconnects.

I sit back on my bed. I thought the longest night of my life was the one where Stan slept right here next to me. Now I’m thinking tonight wins that trophy.

How the hell am I ever going to sleep?

* * *

 

I don’t even get a siesta. I end up rereading some mystery paperback my dad leant me, and then playing online poker for about five hours. I’m so unfocused that I get my ass kicked royally by some jerk named MuffDvr969 and the automated dealer. It isn’t the first night I’ve ever been bested by a pervert and a robot, so I take some comfort in that.

Very small comfort, mind you.

It’s finally a weekend, at least, so when I finally do manage to pass out into a blissful, dreamless daze around eight in the morning, I get to stay in bed until one or so. That’s about the time when my mom starts yelling and telling me that if I’m not going to get up and be a productive member of society, I’ll have to find my own place.

Get up, get out, and throw away the key.

I tell her not to tempt me. It doesn’t do wonders for our already tense relations, let me tell you.

Still, I try to be good and make an appearance at lunch. Mom makes something that vaguely resembles stew, and tastes pretty decent. Ike’s chowing down like he hasn’t had a bite to eat for a week, but that doesn’t fool anyone. He eats like fifteen meals a day since joining the varsity hockey team. Something about burning calories really fucking fast.

The home phone rings about halfway through lunch.

My mom picks up, “Hello? Oh, Stanley! How are you?”

She listens to Stan’s reply, which I can’t hear. I’m this close to tackling her to the ground just to get the phone away when she says, “That’s wonderful. How about I pass you on to Kyle?”

Wordlessly, I get a glare and the phone.

I take the phone and ignore the glare.

“Hi, Stan?” I ask, sounding all breathy and stupid. Ike’s mocking me from his seat at the kitchen table. Shooting him a dark look, I walk into the living room, “What’s up?”

“I told you I’d call you.”

“I know. I thought you’d ring my cell.”

“I did,” he says humorlessly, “A couple times.”

I think of the tiny plastic contraption that should be in my pocket, but is actually upstairs, in my room. On vibrate. I switch tactics with haste, “How was orientation?”

“Great. Grad school sounds like it’s going to be fucking hard, man. All the other people there were like, the brainchildren of Einstein.”

“NYU’s a hard school,” I say, then realize that I’m not being encouraging, “Um, but you’ll do fine.”

“Thanks,” he replies dryly, not fooled. I wonder if he's doing that annoying thing where he seems like he can read my mind, even though he’s a million miles away. Okay, more like a couple thousand, but it feels like he’s halfway across the globe.

A silence fills the void between us, the distance from Colorado to New York City. I can hear my mom berating Ike in the kitchen, my dad typing in his office, and then mom’s footsteps as she marches upstairs. There’s nothing on the other end at all.

Until Stan asks, “We have to talk, right?”

“Right.”

“So talk,” he prompts in this voice that fills the pit of my stomach with dread. My heart jumps up into my throat, constricting my airways, making it hard to breathe. He doesn’t sound very forgiving. Or understanding. Or any of the things I need him to be for this to work.

I glance back in the kitchen, where Ike’s reading a comic book and munching down my lunch as well as his. He keeps sneaking spoonfuls of stew out of my bowl, not even bothering to surreptitiously sneak a peek and see if I’m watching.

Little bastard probably wouldn’t care if I was.

At least he’s not listening. I can’t even imagine what he’d have to say to my parents about the words that are going to escape my lips in a few seconds. Talk about eternal blackmail.

I don’t want to say what I’m thinking. It’s against my better judgment, and it’s not even how I really feel. I just have to check, “Stan, the reason you left…uh…the other day, when we did that…thing…is it because you’re in love with Wendy?”

Stan’s voice on the other line is nonexistent. I can hear his breathing, soft and shallow. I count his exhalations; one, two, three. It takes forever for him to speak, and when he does he says, “Kye, don’t take this the wrong way…”

My inhalation is sharp. My heart practically fucking flutters when he says my nickname, but those words aren’t good. He’s going to say it’s true. And then he’s going to turn me down. He’s going to reject me. I’m going to shrivel up and die; create a crime scene right here in my living room.

“…you can be the stupidest person I know sometimes.”

Okay. That’s not what I expected.

I see red before I can stop myself, “What? Fuck you!”

“I’m serious. I mean, you’re a genius, don’t get me wrong. But…remember that time you jumped off the roof in elementary school just to prove Cartman wrong? That was a really idiotic thing to do,” he sighs, like it was a recent occurrence, instead of one that happened in fucking elementary school.

“Gee. Thanks, asshole,” I call him to confess my undying love and devotion, and this is what I get?

I can hear the frown in his voice when he says, “Aw, come on. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

"What, you telling me I’m a moron?” I ask pointedly.

“Ky-le,” he draws out my name, exasperated.

“No, no,” I mutter, “Go on. Tell me how stupid I am.”

“You’re pretty fucking stupid,” Ike calls from the kitchen.

Guess he is listening. I flip him off.

“Mom, Kyle gave me the finger!” Ike yells.

“Bubbalah, I swear to Abraham, don’t make me come down there!” my mother shrieks from upstairs, “Be nice to your brother.”

“Got it ma!” I scream back, glaring daggers at my little brother. Then I return to the phone, “So?”

“Okay,” Stan groans, “Remember that time you became a Blainetologist?”

“I was nine, Stan. It’s not really fair for you to base judgments off what I did when I was nine.”

Sounding exasperated, he commands, “Dude. Shut the hell up and listen for a minute.”

“I don’t want to.”

Gee. Maybe I should stomp my foot to emphasize the point, or at least complete the image that I’m three.

“You are such a dumbass.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said,” I shoot back. I don’t care that I’m being immature. Except…I kind of do. It feels like I’ve had this argument a thousand times. People telling me I’m stupid, and me knowing it’s true, I mean. Maybe that’s why I’m upset that Stan’s the one who’s buying into it. He was my best friend, once. He should just know better.

“Dude,” now he sounds more irritated, and I don’t blame him, “If you’re not going to listen, then why the fuck are we talking?”

“Because,” I exhale, aware that I’m about to make myself sound like a total pussy. It can’t be helped.

“Because I’m a dumbass and I want my best friend back,” I moan, hating myself for every word that comes out of my mouth, “and more than that, Stan.”

I don’t expect him to actually get anything out of it. So when his breath hitches, I’m kind of surprised, “More? Like, more, more?”

Stunned by my admission, I can’t find the words I need. That wasn’t exactly how I meant to say it.

But…I guess it’s true.

“Yeah…more, dude.”

Now we’re both quiet.

I prompt, “So what were you saying about me being stupid?”

Ike snorts something unintelligible from the kitchen. Moses, if he’s been listening to every word I’m saying, I can’t imagine the amount of ‘fag’ insults I’m going to get later. Still, I ignore him, listening hard for whatever Stan’s about to say.

If I was expecting something sympathetic, I’m sorely disappointed. He laughs. Hard and long.

“I was saying that you’re the stupidest person I know sometimes, but that it balances out.”

Didn’t expect that either.

“What?”

“I mean, you may be dumb, but I’m an incredible jackass. So it’s even.”

Warmth spreads towards my fingertips. I know he’s smiling, even though we’re on the phone. Hell, I’m suppressing a grin.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” I prod him, even though I have an idea. It might be a stupid idea, lying low in the back of my head, but it’s still an idea. One I’d give my right arm to pursue.

“It means…we’ll talk when I get back.”

“You’re coming back?” I demand, and okay, I’m surprised.

“Duh, man. I was only in New York looking at the school and checking for apartments for next fall. I’m back next week. Couldn’t just up and quit my job and everything.”

“Your mom made it sound like you’d stay there.”

“My mom’s scatterbrained,” I can almost hear him roll his eyes.

“That is true,” I pause, “She makes kickass hot chocolate, though.”

“Wait. You got hot chocolate? You went to my parents’ house?”

“I had some things to say to you,” I tell him defensively. I mean, it’s not my fault that he decided to evacuate the state the day I decided to tell him…stuff.

“Like?”

“Like…that I want more.”

“Yeah. That,” he’s quiet, and I can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

“Stan?”

“Yeah?”

I imagine his face. His cobalt eyes and the line of his jaw. The way he looks when he smiles, when he’s sad, and when he just can’t stand me anymore. I wonder how his face looks right now, this second, this moment. Being apart from him is turning into a form of torture.

In the spirit of being brave, I discard all that and say what’s on my mind. Even if it’ll make him hate me.

“Do you still want, um, more?”

These longs silences are killing me. I might drop dead of a heart attack before he gets a word out. My family’s going to have to walk over my corpse to get out the door.

Finally, Stan breathes, “I think so, man.”

Well.

That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.

Offended, I demand, “You think so? What’s there to think about?”

“If I recall correctly, it took SOMEBODY over a month to think about things,” Stan snorts, accompanied by background noise of beeping, honking, and scattered chatter. It sounds like he just exited a building, or something.

I’m turning red, because it’s a low blow, “Okay, that’s different.”

Just to be difficult I think, he queries, “How?”

“Because,” I hiss, glancing at the kitchen. I hope Ike’s turned off his supersonic hearing, “Because I didn’t know I was gay, okay!”

Stan teases, “You’re just slow. Admit it.”

I screech, “I am not slow!”

“You kind of are,” Ike yells from the kitchen again.

That’s it. I’m going to kill my baby brother. He’s heard too much. And he has to learn some respect. Insulting one’s elders is just not acceptable.

“Tell Ike I said hi,” Stan tells me, chuckling, and he doesn’t seem to care that Ike may have about a lifetime’s worth of blackmail on the both of us based off this conversation.

“I hate you,” is what I reply.

“No you don’t,” he says seriously, “You don’t hate me.”

“I don’t,” I confess, smiling because it sounds like things might be turning around, “And you don’t hate me, right?”

“I told you. Have to think about it.”

I groan, “Haven’t you fucked with my head enough?”

“I’ve fucked with your head?” he sounds interested, “Really?”

“Really,” I confirm, “Can’t get you off my mind.”

“Wow. That’s really queer, Kyle.”

“I take it back, I hate you.”

He’s laughing again. Nothing has ever sounded so good.

“So we’ll talk when I get back? About…more?” he asks in this sultry tone, and now I really can’t wait ‘til he gets back.

“We gotta take it slow,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he replies, and I think he’s smiling.

“Just,” I exhale, hating myself for this part, “Just…I don’t want syphilis, okay?”

He chuckles, and his voice sounds oh-so-delectable over the phone. I want him here, now, now that things are almost cool between us again. I want to see him, smell him, touch him.

“What are you talking about, Kye?”

“You gave Wendy the syph. And if you’re with me…I don’t want that to happen.”

“Whoa, I thought we were taking it slow!”

“Moron,” I frown, “I’m not saying I’m jumping you! I’m saying I don’t want you to cheat on me!”

He’s dead quiet again. I almost think he hung up.

Then he says, “Didn’t I tell you already? That’s not going to happen.”

“How do you know?” I hate the whine that creeps into my voice.

“I just do,” he pauses, and then says, “We’re going to take this one step at a time. No stupid bets. If you start feeling sick about it, or you think I’m going to stray, or hell, you’re suddenly attracted to Cartman-“

“Gross!”

“-we can stop. I…we…we went about it wrong. This time we’re going to do things the right way. The grownup way.”

“That’s…kind of terrifying,” I admit. I don’t know how to be a grownup. I should, but if this whole experience has taught me anything, it’s that I have no clue. I can’t even remember to take out the garbage, or reply to the letters my loan companies keep sending. I’m a complete child.

“I know.”

Just maybe Stan is too.

After a second or so I say, “Hey, I thought you were still thinking. If we’re going to do things right does that mean you’ve decided?”

“Uh,” he pauses to think, a grin creeping back into his voice, “Nope. Still undecided.”

“Cartman’s suddenly sounding very sexy,” I tell him, laughing.

He hangs up on me.            


	27. Bartender, I Really Did It This Time

The time Stan spends in New York City is the longest interval of my life, though it’s barely any time at all. I feel suspended in a moment, even as I make my way through all the motions of normal life. No matter what I do my mind is stuck on a loop, a pulse that screams ‘he’s-coming-back-he’s-coming-back-he’s-coming-back’.

I’m constantly thinking about Stan’s return from the big city up North. I haven’t talked to him for the entire week, and some part of me is hoping that he’s changed his mind. That he doesn’t want me. That this is all a big mistake, because I’m the biggest coward in the world and don’t know if I can handle it.

It’s like I can’t even function, but all the while, I do. I go to my internship that masquerades as an actual job. I watch conservative republican TV that I don’t entirely like with my dad. I call up Kenny and have an actual conversation with him, even though it’s halting and awkward. I cave into my mom’s silent treatment and start taking Ike to hockey practice, mostly because I have strange brotherly warm and fuzzy feelings that actually have won out over being stubborn and making a pointless show of rebellion.

Mom appreciates it, I think. She’s been talking to me again, as of yesterday. We have some work to do with the whole parent-child relationship thing; I can’t spend the rest of my time at home arguing like banshees. I’m trying to behave, to not forget how understanding she was when I told her I was in love awhile back. I mean, she can be terrifying, but she’s my mom. Nobody’s perfect; not even parents. And considering the circumstances of my less than triumphant homecoming, I like to think she’s reacted rather well. Despite being disappointed that my life hasn’t turned out the way she’d like, she’s still…proud. She never says it, but yesterday, when we made up, I could kind of tell. That’s what really matters.

On the day Stan’s supposed to come back, I don’t do any of the things I should, like run to his apartment, throw open his door, and screw him senseless. I don’t compulsively check the flight listings to see if he got in on time, or give into my inexplicable paranoia that there was a horrible, fiery inferno over New Jersey that resulted in a tragic end to my love story.

Instead I sit at home and play video games with Ike. I’m tense all over, waiting for my phone to ring.

My saving grace turns out not to be my cell phone; it’s my mother’s voice.

“Bubbalah,” she exclaims, “Are you sticking around for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, ma,” I reply blankly, watching Ike’s character hack me to bits with a machete on screen. I’m surprised she hasn’t gone off about the game we’re playing. It’s bloody, violent, and exactly what I need to keep myself calm.

“Good,” she smiles, and pats me on the head like I’m four, “Sharon Marsh just called. Stanley just got home from a trip, and he suggested we all get together tonight.”

I tear my eyes from my 2D death and ask her to repeat that.

Now it’s not just the invitation that I’m incredulous about.

My mom and Stan’s mom have been friends for ages, but there’s no denying that my mother is kind of the Nazi version of Top Chef. She hates going to other peoples’ houses for dinner, insisting that they can’t provide our family the proper nourishment and spiritual feasts required for a good Jewish family. Whatever that means. That’s why our family usually asks theirs over, or invites them on picnics or out to restaurants instead.

The real kicker is that none of us are all that fond of my mother’s cooking, but we’re too nice, or too scared, to actually tell her that keeping kosher isn’t exactly a fun and exciting gourmet trick.

She grasps what I’m asking immediately, and inclines her head to say, “You’ve been so down lately. I thought maybe dinner with Stanley and his family might cheer you up.”

It’s instances like these where I remember that even though being home is like my own special brand of hell, my mother loves me.

“Thanks mom.”

“Sure,” she winks, “Sharon does make excellent pie.”

So, Stan’s house for a dinner with the Marshes. It’s the first join meal with them I’ve attended in years. I’m nervous as all get out, and still thinking that it might be best if he just tells me that whole phone conversation was a huge, colossal fuckup.

Then I walk into the Marshes’ house, my father’s arm around my shoulder. He’s talking my ear off about investing in retirement plans and things so far off in the future that I’m having trouble conceptualizing how they apply to me.

I see Stan standing there, looking better than sex in his worn blue jeans and a blue and black flannel button down hanging open over a tight black t-shirt.

Automatic tune out from dad’s bolstering-your-future conversation.

Mostly because I have to fight the overwhelming urge to tackle my friend to the couch.

God, I hope he didn’t change his mind. Fuck being a coward. I will do anything in my power to get this guy alone for an hour.

Stan smiles, slow and easy and says, “Hey Kye.”

It’s like, click.

Everything falls into place, and somehow, I know it’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. But I can’t say any of the things that are bursting from my throat, so instead I choke out, “How was New York, dude?”

Dad seems to know that I’ve lost all interest in discussing benefit packages, and leaves my side in favor of Stan’s dad. They immediately strike up a conversation about who-the-fuck-cares-what.

“Eh,” Stan shrugs, and I can’t take my eyes off him, “I kind of missed the snow.”

“Miss anything else?”

His smile only grows bigger. I want to run my tongue over those perfect teeth and make him moan.

My mother ruins my fantasy, jostling me with her elbow and chiding, “Don’t be silly, Bubbalah. Of course Stanley missed Wendy.”

Ouch. Way to stick the knife in deep, ma.

To my surprise, Stan shakes his head, “Actually Mrs. Broflovski, Wendy and I broke up.”

Really?

“What?” Randy Marsh’s gruff voice demands from where he’s been standing, chatting with my father, “Stan? You didn’t tell me you broke up with her! Why would you do that? She was a total bombshell!”

“Gross, dad,” Stan wrinkles his nose and makes an I-dearly-hope-you-weren’t-ogling-my-girlfriend-because-you’re-old-and-that’s-sick-face, “Wendy was seeing someone else.”

“Anyone I know?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, all the while thinking that this is the best news I’ve heard all year.

Stan laughs, “Clyde Donovan.”

“No shit?”

Wow. Wonder how that one went down. Last time I saw Wendy, she seemed to believe that Stan was going to be her future husband.

I think of her sobbing in the bathroom, telling me that I fucked up her boyfriend. I wonder how much I actually had to do with this breakup, and how much of it was Wendy herself. I’m going to ask Stan later.

“Kyle! Watch your mouth!” my mother yells. Sharon Marsh visibly tenses. I think she’s kind of scared of my mother, despite their millennia old friendship. Smart lady.

“Sorry, mom.”

Stan shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, and I ask, “Are you okay with that?”

“Your son’s not very bright, is he?” I hear Randy ask my dad, “Wendy’s a total babe. No shit Stan’s not okay.”

I notice no one reprimands him for his language, but I don’t really care. My eyes are trained on Stan, on his eyes; deep and cobalt, and tantalizing.

Damn. He’s doing this on purpose. No one looks this hot without trying.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he shrugs and smiles again, a secret smile that’s only for me.

And Ike, who exclaims, “Dude. You guys are acting like total fags.”

“Ike!” mom screams.

She thinks her sons have gone off the deep end, I can tell. She hates it when we’re not polite little gentlemen. She hates it when we’re not perfect in front of others. I get the feeling it’s more for our sake than hers. She doesn’t want anyone to look down on us, ever. Not even because of stupid bad words.

“But they are,” Ike insists to my mother’s tomato red face.

I look at Stan, and he looks at me. We laugh, and nobody can figure out why. I haven’t felt this good in ages. He’s here. He’s mine.

Right before dinner, Stan says he got me a souvenir. He tells my family it’s in his room, and I have to come up and get it.

Randy says, “The little Broflovski’s right. You are acting like fags.”

Stan shakes his head and warns, “Dad!”

“Alright, alright. God. Fag used to be a PC term.”

This starts my mother in on how fag was never, ever a politically correct phrase. Her voice fades as I climb the steps behind Stan, watching his silhouette as he ascends. Watching his ass, too.

The second we’re in his room, I ask for my souvenir. He puts his hands on my hips and pushes me into the wall, grinding against me and kissing me breathless.

Best present ever.

When he pulls away, I ask, “Wow. Does everyone get one of those?”

“Just you,” he murmurs, irises darkened with lust, and then he’s kissing me again. His tongue touches mine, soft and probing, and then hard and deep. I can’t figure out which I like more. This calls for exploration.

I kiss him back, wanting to get closer.

Needing to get closer.

Stan’s hand is tracing my hipbone, and he pulls away from my mouth so he can start giving me a hickey I feel all the way down to my dick. I haven’t been this hard, ever, it feels like, which I’m sure I said before, but this time, to quote the fatass, I am so seriously.

“Did you miss me?” he asks against my throat, the vibration making me all tingly everywhere that it counts.

“Ah, no,” I gasp as his tongue traces his name out against my jugular, “You never answered me on that count. Is the snow the only thing you missed? Are you still thinking?”

“Yes I missed you,” he groans, half laughing. He guides one of my hands down to his jean clad cock, which feels hot and spasms at my touch, “And does it feel like I’m thinking? Anything?”

“That’s what I like to hear,” I tell him, and pull him up against me again.

We get to make out for all of zero point two seconds before my mother starts shrieking from downstairs like all of Armageddon has let loose.

“Stanley! Kyle! Dinner!”

We both groan with disappointment and unrestrained lust as we pull apart.

“Rain check?” Stan asks.

“Lots of rain checks,” I promise, “Frequent ones.”

At the dinner table, Sharon’s cooked up a feast suitable for way more than our two small families, no matter what my mother thinks. This woman could feed a small country. Or Cartman.

Plus I smell pie cooking in the kitchen. Could this day get any better?

I’m halfway through my mashed potatoes, listening to my father and Randy’s mindless political debate and Sharon and my mother’s small talk about gardening when the conversation turns my way.

“So Kyle, what are your plans for the future?” Randy asks, “Putting that genius to use, huh kiddo?”

“Kyle still finding himself,” my mom says fondly, placing her hand over mine, and it makes me angry.

I take it back. Screw her and her pride and her kindness.

I know who I am.

But…maybe it’s true. I hate that it could be. Knowing myself and knowing where I stand in the world are different.

Then Stan leans over and whispers, “I know who you are. Always have. You’re Kyle. Even when you’re not…”

He trails off, because we’re being watched by the entire table. It doesn’t matter. I know what he means. Even when I’m not the person I’m supposed to be. The college graduate with the perfect life. The straight guy. The one who never makes mistakes. All those things that made up Kyle Broflovski, but don’t really, not anymore.

I’m strangely okay with not being that Kyle.

We spend the rest of dinner playing footsie, although at one point it escalates into a kicking match. Hey, we’re still guys.

* * *

 

There’s a party at Craig’s later that night.

Surprise, surprise. The party is for him.

About Craig. I guess things with him and Token didn’t spiral into a fist fight; but what really happened that night is anybody’s guess.

He’s not giving up. He’s taking the money he’s made from the bar and opening another one.

In San Francisco.

When I ask him about the new place’s proximity to Token, all he does is shrug and wink, saying, “Never surrender things you want, Broflovski.”

I think I get it. Sort of. He seems less angry now, so whatever did go down must have affected him somehow. I think Token took my advice. I think he gave Craig hope.

It’s kind of weird thinking that while I’ve been agonizing over Stan and my feelings and all that, Craig’s had his own gauntlet to run, and that he’s doing okay so far. Reminds me I’m not the center of the universe, no matter how much I like to think I am.

Anyway, so we’re all at the bar. Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and I. There’s a bunch of other old faces here too. Bebe and Butters. Red, AKA Passion the Exotic Dancer even pops in for a while. She seems to be taking my newfound gayness alright, claiming that she called it first. Let me mention here that I didn’t announce it to the world or anything; only Kenny, Craig, and Cartman. Red just happened to walk in on Stan and me groping in the bathroom.

I now know what locks are for.

Clyde’s here too, but no Wendy. He claims she’s a little more torn up about the breakup than Stan is, or than he even implied. I guess she and Clyde is a relatively new thing; more of a counter measure than a desire to be with him. It’s just her fucked up way of getting back at Stan. They’ve got some work to do before they can become friends again. I feel really bad about that, but what can I do? Some things we can’t fix, no matter how badly we want to.

Kenny orders us up a round of drinks. He’s dressed like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. His boss is coming back to the garage in a few weeks, and he says it’s high time he starts looking into a real job. One that will get him out of South Park.

I’m still not entirely sure if we’re good. He takes the idea that Stan and I are together-although we’re not entirely sure what being together entails-with uncharacteristic grace. I see a flicker of sadness in his eyes, right before he puts his arm around me and kisses me on the cheek. It hurts to know that I put that sadness there, but I think he’s going to be okay. There’s fire in his gaze and a smile on his lips, even after all this.

He’s tough, Kenny McCormick. Too tough and too amazing to be wasted on this town. I’m glad he’s getting out while he still can.

To Stan he says, “If you hurt him, I’ll never forgive you.”

Then he kisses Stan, full on the lips. Outraged, Stan pulls back, yelping, “Kenny, what the hell?”

Okay. I’ve made a grave, libelous claim.

Kenny’s not getting out of South Park, because I’m going to kill him.

“What the fuck?!” I demand, indignant. He didn’t just do that, did he?

“Just checking,” Kenny replies innocently, “Can’t have him wandering off.”

At that moment, one of the dangling overhead lamps falls on his head, promptly spilling blood from his skull all over the table. Some of it splashes in my drink.

“Oh my god!” Stan screams, “They killed Kenny!”

“You bastards!” I chime in with considerably less enthusiasm. I mean, he kind of deserved it. I stare at the crimson floating around in my beer, and then shrug, taking a sip.

Stan turns to Cartman and exclaims, “You’re a cop! Aren’t you supposed to like, arrest Craig for faulty wiring?”

“Watch it, Marsh,” Craig warns, “My wiring was approved by the fire inspector!”

“Whatever. Po’Boy totally brought that on himself,” Cartman smirks, but I notice he looks a little cheerless about it. Hmm.

“He’s not a real cop, Stan,” I interrupt, trying to draw his eyes away from Kenny’s corpse. I swear to god, when that guy comes back to life, I’m going to kill him again for that damned kiss, “He’s just a dispatcher.”

“Aye! I got a gun!”

I roll my eyes and reply smugly, “Which you’ll someday be convicted for using in crimes against humanity.”

“Fuck you, Jew.”

“Fuck you right back, fatass.”

“Kyle, I thought we talked about this!” Stan squeaks, and it takes me a second to realize he thinks I’m alluding to something that I am not, in any way, alluding to.

“You’re sick in the head,” I tell him, but I’m grinning.

He cares.

It’s enough to make a guy glad all over.

We spend most of the night drinking, laughing, and talking. Kenny comes back towards the last hour before closing, and Craig forces him to clean his brain matter while the rest of us drink.

Over my beer, I catch Stan’s eye. He’s some kind of beautiful, and I’m still not really certain where we stand. Is he my boyfriend? We haven’t worked that one out yet. All I know is that no matter what we end up being, I’m a lucky bastard. My boyfriend- or whatever the hell he is, loves me. Me.

Who’d have thought that was even possible? I’ve fucked up with Stan more times than I have with the rest of the world put together, and he forgives me. More than that, he wants to be with me. I mean, when I’m with him, I’m good enough. For the first time in ages, I’m not a screw up. Because of him, I’m just Kyle.

And yeah, that’s a really gay thing to say.

We don’t really know how we’re going to end up working out, or if we’ll even stay together. He’s still going to NYU come fall, and it’s up to me whether or not I want to follow him. By then I’ll be done with my CC degree, for real this time, and I’ll have the opportunity to do anything I want.

By then I might even know what exactly that is.

Bebe starts singing some song from her new album off key, and Red starts dancing on top of a table. Butters and Craig are doing car bombs by the bar, and Kenny and Cartman are talking to Stan and I. We’re discussing some stupid thing, something that doesn’t even count as real conversation. All I care about is that I’m here.

With the three best friends I never even thought I’d see again back in December.

It makes me think I should just forget about planning for the fall. I don’t even really know what’s happening next week. And that’s okay. I’m never going to know what the future holds. Hell, five years ago I never would have seen myself back in South Park. I was a star, and I didn’t think I could fall. I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be in love with Stan. But things have turned out alright.

So yeah, pretty much checked my expectations at the car door.

I slide my hand into his.


End file.
